
f". ^■■y^T^C^J. 



^ „,_/^, 









A 




THE PARTINGTON FAMILY. 



KNITTING-WORK: 



WEB OF MANY TEXTURES, 



WROUUHT BY 



RUTH PARTINGTON, 

(B. P. SHILLABER.) 



■ "Various, that the mind of desultory man, studious of change, and pleased with novelty, may 

be indulged." 



BOSTON: 
BROWN, TAQGARD & CHASIj: 

NEW YORK: SHELDON & COMPANY. 

PHILADELPniA : J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1859. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by 
B. P. SniLLABER, 

In tlie Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massacliusetta 



3y Tdfisfer 

D. C. Public Library 



/^UG 8-^9^ 



stereotyped by 

HOBART & ROBBINS, 

New England Type and Stereotype Foundety 

BOSTON. 

Cambridge : Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 



PEEFACE. 



The author of the present volume, while preparing it for publi- 
cation, has been impressed with a due regard of its destined benefit 
to the world — and to himself — and, while thus obtruding himself, 
like a fist, into the public eye, ###*** 

To THE Publishers. 

Gentlemen : It has suddenly occurred to me that a preface is 
altogether unnecessary, and, therefore, I positively decline writing 
one, inasmuch as I have commenced five already, and been com- 
pelled to abandon them all, from sheer inability to complete them. 
Prefaces have always seemed to me like drummers for a show, 
calling upon people to " come up and see the elephant," with a 
slight exaggeration of the merit of the animal to be exhibited ; and 
though, in the present case, such enlargement of the fact would 
not be necessary, still those disposed to be captious might read our 
promises with incredulity. Mrs. Partington, no less than the Roman 
dame, should be above suspicion ; therefore, this heralding should be 
avoided, and her name left with only its olden reputation resting 
about it, like the halo of cobweb and dust about an ancient vintage 
of port. Her coadjutors, Dr. Spooner, Old Roger, and Wideswarth, 
representing the profound, the jolly, and the sentimental, need no 
endorsement among the enlightened many who will buy this book ; 
and we can safely leave them, as lawyers sometimes do their cases 
when they have nothing to say, without argument. Again, all will 

(3) 



IV PREFACE. 

see for themselTes the acid and sugar, and spirit and water, com- 
prised in the contents of the volume, — forming the components of a 
sort of intellectual punch, of -which thej can partake to any extent, 
without headache or heartache, as the sedate therein forms a judi- 
cious corrective of the eccentric and gay which might intoxicate. 
The illustrations, by Hoppin, tell their own story, and need no 
further commendation than their great excellence. The local 
meaning of many of the sayings and doings of the book will, of 
course, be readily understood, without explanation or apology; and 
the new matter will be distinguished from the old, by the quality of 
novelty that generally attaches to that with which we are not famil- 
iar. I thought somewhat of giving the name beneath each individ- 
ual represented in our frontispiece ; but the idea was dispelled in a 
moment, by the reflection that ^Irs. Partington — the central sun of 
our social system —^ could not be misinterpreted ; while Dr. Spooner, 
Prof. "Wideswarth, Old Roger, and Ike, were equally well defined ; 
and the skill of the artist in depicting them needed no aid. There- 
fore, all things considered, I think we had better let the book slip 
from its dock quietly, and drift out into the tide of publication, to 
be borne by this or that eddy of feeling to such success as it may 
deserve, without the formality of prefatory bottle-breaking. I le^ve 
the matter, then, as a settled thing, that we will not have a preface. 

Resolutely yours. 

The Author. 

Note by the Publishers. — There is an axiom which says that 
one needs must submit when a certain character drives ; and hence 
we acquiesce, deeming that if a preface cannot be had, we will do 
without it. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Guardian for Ike, 

Autumn, 33 

Twenty Years Married, 34 

Whole-souled Fellows, 36 

Behind the Scenes, 37 

Woman's Sovereignty, 38 

Pets, 39 

By Chance, 40 

Mrs. Partington and the Russian Helmet, 41 

Who is Vile ? 42 

The Household Ghost, 43 

Mrs. Partington Patriotic, 44 

Weaning the Baby, , . . 45 

Home Music, 45 

Mrs. Partington at the Ballet, 48 

Flowers, 48 

Involuntary, 49 

Signs of Fall, 50 

Ike's Spring Medicine, 51 

Parting, 52 

Assimilation, 53 

Comparison, 54 

Malapropos, .54 

Mrs. Partington on Surprise Parties, ^ 55 

Individuality 56 

Misapprehension, • 57 

Home Music, 58 

Harvest Hymn, 59 

Mrs. Partington on Horticulture, 60 

A Bit of Nonsense, 61 

Character, 62 

Self-Iiespect, 62 

Love, 63 

Frenchman's Lane, 64 

The First Suit, 66 

Moral Tendency, 67 

Sympathy with Eascals, 68 

Organic, 69 

Scratching for a Living, 70 

Odorless Koses, 70 

The Pritchard Heirs, 71 

1* (V) 



VI CONTENTS. 

Page 

Don't Fret, 101 

The Dicky, 102 

Heathenish, 103 

Bringing up Childi'en, 104 

Unmet Confidence, 106 

The Dead Sailor, 108 

The Coolies, 109 

Talking Horse, 110 

Pictures, Ill 

The Ocean, 112 

Tatality, 112 

A Serious Call, 113 

The Baron of Boston, 114 

Swearing, 115 

The Prima Donna, 116 

Misanthropy, 117 

Measuring Love, 118 

Plebeian Pretension, 119 

The Franklin Statue, 120 

A Way to be Happy, 121 

Xew England's Lion, 122 

LTnnatural Fathers, 122 

A Difficulty, 124 

Love, 124 

Heirlooms, 125 

Don't Look Back, 126 

Good Resolutions, 127 

Mrs. Partington on Music, 128 

Sacrilegious, 129 

An Old Fable Modernized, 130 

Robert Burns, 133 

The Knocking at the Gate, 135 

Mrs. Partington and Ike, 137 

Cold Weather, 138 

An Analogy, 139 

Nahant, 140 

Number One Hundred and One, 141 

Contentment, 146 

The Old Piano, 147 

Ike at Church, 148 

Sounds of the Summer Night, 149 

The Household Shadow, 150 

Character, 151 

A Leaf from a Record, 152 

The Cable, 154 

A Pleasant Stoky for Jealotts People, 155 

A Courting Reminiscence, 168 

Fidgety People, 170 

The Philistines be upon Thee, 171 

Mrs. Partington on Intemperance, 172 

Mrs. Partington and the Telegraph, 172 

Great and Little Struggles, 173 

Died of Cramp, 174 

Cosmetics, 178 

A Tale with a Moral, 179 

Electro-Chemical Baths, 181 

True Courage, 182 

My Grandmother, 183 



CONTENTS. Vn 

Page 

The Mill-Brook, 188 

Damaged Goods, 189 

The Spirit of Seventy-Six, 190 

Ike Partington and Pugilism, 192 

The Old South Bell, 194 

The Falses, 195 

Hard Times, 196 

A Night off Point Judith, 197 

Letter Writing, 197 

Sympathy, 199 

Sea-Air, 200 

An Odd Fellow's Funeral, 201 

The Courts, 202 

Sick of It, 204 

Look Up, 205 

A Domestic Story, 206 

An Inner Shrine, 216 

Constant Dropping Wears, 217 

Emulation, 218 

Partingtonian Wisdom, 219 

A Cup of Tea, 220 

Christmas Hearths anb Hearts, 223 

Higher, 260 

Reveries, 261 

Old and Young, 262 

The Valley of the Shadow, 263 

The Model Husband, 265 

Sonnet to Pan, 267 

Illustrative Pantomime, 268 

On the Mississippi, 269 

Mrs. Partington at Saratoga, 270 

A Picture, 271 

Job a Drummer, 272 

A Slight Misconception, 273 

Story of Frazer's River, 274 

Habits, 277 

Checkers, 278 

Grammar, 278 

Feeling, 279 

An Impostor, 279 

Mesmerism and Matrimony, 280 

The Old North Mill-Pond, 285 

The True Philosophy, 287 

A Classic, 289 

Be Contented, 292 

Whist, 293 

To a Heel-Tap, 295 

Oysters, 296 

California Tan, 298 

A Gouty Man's Reverie, 299 

Ike and Lion, 300 

On a Child's Picture, 302 

Wearing Ornaments, 303 

Operatic, 303 

A Narrow Escape, 304 

The World, 306 

Niagara Falls, 307 

Ballad about IBunker, 308 



VIII CONTENTS. 

Page 

Attending the Anniversaries, 309 

The Country Ride, 310 

Economy, 313 

Life's Masquerade, 318 

Mrs. Partington Philosophizing, 319 

Luck, 320 

On such a Night as this, 321 

The Reason, . 323 

The Banker's Dream, 324 

Sea-Sickness, 326 

ilow Curious it is, 328 

Earth Speaketh to Earth, 329 

A\^ithout a Speck, 330 

Forced Obedience, 331 

A Life's Fortunes, 332 

Mount Washington, 353 

Albuminous, 354 

Parted Ties, 357 

Unconditional Cheerfulness, 358 

Mrs. Partington grows Desultory, 359 

Emblematic, 359 

A Night op It, 360 

The Preacher and the Children, 369 

Out West, 370 

Conscience, 370 

Rabies, 371 

Agricultural, 372 

Mrs. Partington and Patent Medicines, 373 

Song of Chelsea Ferry, 374 

Mr. Blif kins' Baby, 375 

Patience, 377 

Ike's Composition-s m School, 378 

Mrs. Sled put out, 388 

Tale of a Horse, 389 

Mrs. Partington on the Currency, 392 

A Fourth of July Incident, 393 

Scratched Gneiss and Bear Skin, 394 

Watering-Places, 395 

Hezekiah and Ruth, 396 

Burglars in the Partington Mansion, 398 

A Text Applied, 400 

Justly Critical, 401 

Starry, 401 

Birth-Day of Lafayette, 402 

Croaking, 403 

Heathen Sympathy, . 404 

Whitewashing, 405 

Prospective Summer, 407 



THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 

When Mrs. Partington first moved from Beanville, 
and the young scion of the Partington stock was 
exposed to the temptations of city life and city associ- 
ations, it was thought advisable to appoint a " guar- 
deen" over him. Ike was not a bad boy, in the wicked 
sense of the word bad ; but he had a constant proclivity 
for tormenting every one that he came in contact with ; 
a resistless tendency for having a hand in everything 
that was going on ; a mischievous bent, that led him into 
continual trouble, that brought on him reproaches from 
aU sides, and secured for him a reputation that made 
him answerable for everything of a wrong character 
that was done in the neighborhood. A barber's pole 
could not be removed from the barber's door and placed 
beside the broker's, but it must be imputed to " that 
plaguy Ike ; " all clandestine pulls at door-bells in the 
evenings were done by " that plaguy Ike ; " if a ball or 
an arrow made a mistake and dashed through a window, 
the ball or the arrow belonged to " that plaguy Ike; " if 
on April Fool's day a piece of paper were found pasted 
on a door-step, putting grave housekeepers to the trou- 
ble and mortification of trying to pick up an imagined 
letter, the blame was laid to " that plaguy Ike ; " and if a 
voice was heard from round the corner crying " April 
Fool ! " or " sold," those who heard it said, at once, it 
was " that plaguy Ike's." Many a thing he had thus to 



10 THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 

answer for that he did n't do, as well as many that he 
did, Tintil Iklrs. Partington became convinced of the 
necessity of securing some one to look after him besides 
herself 

In her exigency she bethought her of an old friend 
named Roger, who, because he was a single man, and 
had got along beyond the meridian of life, was called 
" Old Eoger " by every one. He had lived in the city 
for many years and knew all its ways, and was just the 
one for the proposed station. He was ^^ well off," as 
the world understands it, and was a very genial man, 
though rather hasty in temper, at times. She sent for 
him as she had proposed, and appointed a day for his 
calling upon her. On the afternoon that she had named 
for the visit, she and Ike were together in the little sit- 
ting-room, with the antique buffet in one corner, and 
the old chairs and tables arranged around, the walls 
hung with pictures of Joseph and his Brethren, and the 
Prodigal Son, and David and Goliath, — which last Ike 
admired the most, because he always fancied himself to 
be David, and G-oliath a big butcher down street who 
had once set a dog at him, on whom he wished to 
avenge himself, and thought he could if there was n't a 
a law against '^ slinging stones." The profile of Paul 
Partington, Corporal of the Bloody 'Leventh, was con- 
spicuous over the mantelpiece, while above it, sup- 
ported by two nails, rested and rusted the Corporal's 
artillery sword, that had flashed so oft, in the olden time, 
over the ensanguined muster-field. She was engaged 
with her knitting, while the object of her soHcitude was 
busy in a corner engaged in painting a sky-blue horse 
on the bottom of the old lady's best japanned waiter. 
As she mused, in harmony with her clicking needles, 
her thoughts took form in words. 



THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 11 

"How the world lias turned about, to be sure ! " said 
she ; " 't is nothing but change, change. Only yester- 
day, as it were, I was in the country, smelling the 
odious flowers ; — to-day I am in Boston, my oil-facto- 
ries breathing the impure execrations of coal-smoke, 
that are so dilatory to health. Instead of the singing 
of birds, the blunderbusses almost deprive me of consci- 
entiousness. Dear me! Well, I hope I shall be restrained 
through it all. They say that the moral turpentine of 
this place is frightful, but it is n't any use to anticipate 
trouble beforehand ; he may escape all harmonious in- 
fluences that would have a tenderness to hurt him, and, 
as the minister of our parish said, with judicial train- 
ing he may become a useful membrane of society ; 
though training is bad generally, and is apt to make the 
young run to feathers, like cropple-crowned hens. But 
he has genius," — looking at him; — "it comes natural 
to him, like the measles, and every day it is enveloping 
itself more and more. What are you doing, dear?''" she 
said, rising and going towards him. 

" I 'm drawing a horse," replied he, turning it round 
so that she could see it. 

" Why, so it is ! and what caricature and spirit there 
is in it, to be sure ! I should have known it was a horse, 
if you hadn't said a word about it. But have n't you 
given him too thick a head of hair on his tail, and a leg 
too many ? " 

" That 's his mane that you call his tail," said Ike, with 
some show of being offended ; " and, suppose he has 
got five legs ! — anybody can paint one with four ; five 
shows what Miss Brush, my teacher, calls the creative 
power of genius." 

" Well I must digest my spectacles," replied she, smil- 
ing upon him, " before I speak another time. But now 



12 THE GUARDIJlN FOR IKE. 

I want you to go down to the door and watch for a 
gentleman that I suspect, who may ask you to tell him 
where we Hve. He is to be your guardeen, that I told 
you about." 

" Yes 'm/'' said Ike, dutifully, and passed out, whistling 
Yilhkins and his Dinah. 

Mrs. Partington being a stranger in the neighborhood, 
it was not wonderful that the neighbors, of which there 
are many in almost every place, should call upon her ; 
and among them Professor Wideswarth, who had long 
been familiar with her name, presented his card at an 
early period, as did Mr. Blifkins, and Mr. Slow, and 
many others, who, by a strange coincidence, lived in the 
immediate vicinity. Mrs. Partington had deemed that 
the visit of Old Roger to her domicile would be an ex- 
cellent occasion on which to invite her new acquaint- 
ances, and had accordingly asked their presence at that 
time. Among others with whom she had got acquainted 
was Miss Dorothea Chatterton, a good-looking spinster 
of some thirty summers, who had written for the 
papers, and was accounted a prodigy of refinement by 
the editors. As the dame sat at her work, after des- 
patching Ike upon his mission, her door-beU rang, and, 
hastening to open it. Miss Chatterton burst upon her in 
the fuU flower of fashion and smiles. 

" Good-afternoon, Mrs. P.," said she, shaking the dame 
enthusiastically by the hand. " I feared you might be 
lonesome, and so I have come to keep you company, if 
you will let me." 

" Certainly," was the pleasant response, " I will, with 
the greatest reluctance." 

" For my part," continued Miss Chatterton, " I love 
to be sociable. I can't bear those people who stand so 
much upon ceremony, and never get acquainted. I 




Ike upon the curbstone sat looking for his future adviser up and down the street, 
amusing Mmself by occasionaUy throwing pebbles at a passing dog. P. 13. 



THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 13 

don't know what I should do, if I could n't talk. If an 
injunction was put upon my tongue, and my head de- 
pended upon keeping that member still, I believe I 
should forfeit it, and talk on to the last gasp. Some say 
I have remained a spinster because I would n't stop 
talking long enough to allow any one to pop the ques- 
tion. A mistake, I assure you." 

^' So you are a spinster, then ? " said Mrs. Partington, 
as her visitor paused for breath. "Do you use a large 
or a small wheel ? " 

" I mean by spinster," replied she, blushing, " that I 
am a single woman, and, like many other young women, 
am acquainted only with spinning street-yarn, the only 
wheel used being that where I wheel round the 
corners." 

" I 'm rejoiced that you have come," said Mrs. Parting- 
ton, "for, my dear Miss Chatterbox, I am going to have 
a fine old unmarried bachelor here to tea, that I want 
you to get acquainted with. You will be perfectly vac- 
cinated by him." 

" Indeed ! but is he a very old bachelor ? " 

" 0, dear, no ; he is n't more than sixty — just in the 
priming of life, so to speak. I never call a man old till 
he gets to be an octagon or a centurion, and can't lift a 
peck of wheat-bran." 

The ladies sat down to their talk, while Ike upon the 
curbstone sat looking for his future adviser up and 
down the street, amusing himself by occasionally throw- 
ing pebbles at a passing dog, kicking his heels into the 
gravel, or throwing his cap in the air that it might drop 
upon his head. 

" I wonder," said he, " w^hat sort of an old chap this 
Roger is, that is going to look after me ! I s'pose 
folks '11 tell him what a bad fellow I am. He '11 find that 

2 



14 THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 

oat soon enough, for I guess they don't hke me pretty 
well round here. They don't want a fellow to have 
any fun at all, and I should like to know what fun was 
made for, anyhow. I don't believe I am half as bad as 
they make it out. Hello ! here he comes, I guess. Big 
man — broad hat — red face — cane; — yes, this must 
be him." 

" Can you tell me, my lad," said Old Roger, — for it 
was he, — "where a Mrs. Partington lives, somewhere 
about here ? " 

" I know where Mrs. Partington lives," replied Ike. 
" I don't know of any other Mrs. Partington in the 
world." 

" Eight, my lad, and that is she ; there is, indeed, but 
one Mrs. Partington in the world. And her nephew Ike 
— do you know him? I hear strange tales about him, 
and little that 's good. What sort of a boy is he ? " 

" He 's a prime, tip-top fellow, sir ; one of the tip-top- 
est fellows you ever see." 

" What sort of a looking boy is he ? " 

" 0, he 's about my size, with blue hair and red eyes, 
— I mean he has red eyes and blue hair, — no, red hair 
and blue eyes. He is dark-complected, and has got a 
pugnacious nose. He is n't a very good-looking boy ; 
but a boy should n't be despised because he is n't 
handsome, should he ? You 're not remarkably hand- 
some yourself, sir." 

"Be civil, my young friend. Is this Ike an intelligent 
lad?" 

" He is n't anything else. He came pretty nigh getting 
the medal once, for the master said he was the most 
medalsome boy in schooL" 

" He must be a rare sprig of humanity, according to all 
accounts, and might be benefited by a little trimming;" 



THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 15 

" Sho ! " 

" What did you say ? " 

^^ I '11 show you the way, sir, to Mrs. Partington's. 
You must go as far as you can see, yonder, then turn 
round the corner to the right, then take the first right- 
hand corner, then, after you turn the next corner to the 
right, two doors further along is Mrs. Partington's." 

" Thank ye, my lad, and here 's a dime for you." 

The intended guardian hobbled on his course, while 
Ike, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye and the dime 
in his hand, stood looking after him until he turned the 
first corner, when he darted, into the house, telling Mrs. 
Partington that the expected guest was on his way, 
and would arrive in about a quarter of an hour, and 
then dashed out again and down the street. 

After making the circuit of an entire square, " Old 
Roger " found himself on the precise spot from whence 
he had started, and looked around for the young scamp 
who had directed him. He recognized the trick at a 
glance, and, with a half chagrin, said to himself, 

" I ']1 wager that Ike was the little villain that sent 
me on this circuit. The young jackanapes ! if he were 
here, I 'd put more cane on him than would make a 
fashionable lady's dress. Yet there's method in him, 
and it is far more satisfactory to manage a rogue than a 
fool." 

He stepped to the door, which he had come such a 
roundabout way to reach, and rung the bell. In a mo- 
ment more he stood in the presence of the relict of 
Paul Partington. Her face was radiant as the sun, 
while her cap-border encircled it like a ray, presenting 
no mean picture of that august luminary. 

" I 'm sure I 'm glad to see you, sir," said she, shaking 



16 THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 

him warmly by tlie hand. " Did you find any deficiency 
in finding the place ? " 

" Deficiency ! " replied he, " not a bit of it ; there 
was rather too mnch of it, if anything. I should 
have been here half an hour ago, if a young villain — 
whom I strongly suspect to have been Ike himself — 
had not sent me a mile out of my way to find you. He 
told me to turn this way and that way, and by stupidly 
following my nose I found myself just where I started 
from. I could have thrashed him for sending me round 
on so warm a day as this ; but, madam, he is, after all, 
merely a boy, true to the boyish instinct of fun. The 
boy is not true to his nature who is not mischievous. 
Why, I was a boy once, myself, incredible as that may 
seem, and a wilder dog never wore satinet and a felt 
hat, or got flogged for misdemeanors that he didn't do, 
than myself; but here I am, — no matter how old, 
though confessing to thirty-seven years, — and, as peo- 
ple say, not one of the worst men in town, either." 

She had conducted her guest into the httle sitting- 
room, where the sjDinster was waiting very anxiously 
for the promised presentation, Mrs. Partington having 
previously begged her not to be "decomposed'' at meet- 
ing him, for he was very ^' congealing " in his manner, 
and a " perfect Apollyon for pohteness." 

" Allow me to present you with Miss Chatterbody," 
said she, as they gained the centre of the room. 

" Chatterton, sir, at your service," said that lady, col- 
oring sHghtly, as if it were a coloring matter. 

" I assure you, Mrs. Partington," said he, pohtely 
bowing, " you couldn't present me with anything more 
agreeable." 

The dame begged him to be seated, and he attempted 
to do so, but the chair unfortunately possessed but 



THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 17 

three legs, and the honored guest rolled ingloriously 
upon the floor. He rose to his feet, in great indig- 
nation. 

" What does this mean ? " said he. " It seems to me 
that everything is conspiring to try my temper — natu- 
rally very sweet. Here I am directed a mile out of my 
way to find you, and then find myself sprawling upon 
your floor^ — which, though it is remarkably clean, is 
not a very desirable place for one to sit, in a land 
where recumbency is not the fashion, — through the 
medium of an infernal three-legged stool. — Excuse me 
for using so strong an adjective, but I never was so 
completely ^oorec? in my life." 

"A thousand pardons, sir," said Mrs. Partington, 
" but Isaac must have taken that leg to make a bat of" 

"And were he here," replied he, "I should be 
tempted to give him a bat that would make him 
bawl." 

" We should aU be willing to be forgiven, sir," expos- 
tulated the dame. 

" True, true," replied he, recovering his good humor, 
" and to forgive, likewise. What a world this would be 
if we found nothing to do in it but to resent fancied 
wrongs ; and more than half that we call wrongs are 
hut fancies, and a large portion of the other half but 
the mere efi'ect of wounded self-esteem, that brooks 
nothing which conflicts with it." 

Mrs. Partington gazed upon him admiringly ; and, as 
he sought another chair, she turned to Miss Chatterton 
and said, 

" If he was the pasture for a parish, he couldn't be 
more fluid." 

To this remark the young lady nodded and smiled 
assent; and the object of the encomium, with the 
2* 



18 THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 

wrinkles all ironed from his temper, sat in the best of 
humor, imparting such a glow to the surroundings that 
even the rigid profile upon the wall seemed to bend 
from its rigidity, and become imbued with the infection 
of the scene. The jar of a step upon the floor caused 
a slight tintinnabulation of the old china in the buffet, 
which appeared like a response to the flow of good 
humor that pervaded the apartment. The circle was 
soon increased by the addition of the expected guests. 
There was an ominous manuscript protruding from 
"Wideswarth's pocket, while his eye denoted an ab- 
stractedness, as though all the intelligence it ever wore 
had been abstracted from it. Philanthropes was calm 
and exalted, having on his way interrupted a street 
fight, and suffered the martyrdom of profane abuse 
from many juvenile tongues. The Brahmin Poo-Poo, 
with his meerschaum colored to a delightful complexion, 
and his red cap and black tassel, and satin petticoat 
trousers, was an object of respectful curiosity. Mr. 
Blif kins, having attended without the permission of his 
wife, seemed uneasy and fidgety, as a man must who 
gets goods under false pretences. The venerable Dr. 
Spooner was conspicuous among the number, his bald 
head rising like some tall cliff on which the eagles of 
thought might well dehght to rest. They were all 
there, and the spinster was introduced to them by every 
variety of name to which " Chatter " would hitch ; and 
all was moving very happily, when the door-bell rang 
violently, and Mr. Increase Slow came in, with his face 
very red and angry. He was the last of those who 
had been invited. After greeting the company, he 
said, 

" I am sorry to complain at such a time, mem, but I 
should have been here a full hour ago, but for your Ike. 



THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 19 

He is a great trouble to me. He goes on my grass 
with entire impurity ; and, just now when I attempted to 
rush out and drive him off, — gently like, you know, — 
I found he had put a chip in the latch of my door, and 
I was kept shut up there till a policeman let me out. 
If you are to be his guardian, sir, as I understand, he 
will require all your care." 

" Are you sure it was he, sir ? " asked old Roger. 

" Certainly, I am. There 's nothing done round here 
that he is n't at the bottom of it." 

Mr. Slow dropped into a seat like a kedge-anchor, 
and the party grew suddenly grave, as a meadow full 
of strawberries and birds may, when a cloud comes 
betwixt it and the sun. 

" Mr. Roger," said Prof Wideswarth, nervously finger- 
ing the manuscript in his pocket, " a kindred quality of 
mirth appears to enter into the whole plan of the uni- 
verse, and this boy, though roguish, is a human ex- 
ponent of the quality ; and, apropos of mirth, I have 
here a short poem, that it would delight me to read 
to you." 

^' I should be equally delighted to hear it," Roger 
replied, winking to Mr. Slow, who settled back in his 
chair, as though fixing himself in a position to sleep, in 
case the circumstances might warrant. 

Wideswarth cleared his throat, twitched out his man- 
uscript, and thus proceeded : 

" I sing of mirth ! — that boon of bounteous heaven. 
Which stirs our bosoms with its generous leaven — 
Given mankind to cheer their lot below, 
To countervail the smart of pressing woe ; 
Given the heart the worth of life to prize, 
Given to bless all objects to our eyes. 
Without its aid the heavens were dark and drear, 
The winds were full of naught but boding fear ; 



20 THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 

The Bob-o'-Lincoln on the Tbending hay 

Would tune his note to dirges all the day ; 

The grass and flowers, that glow in such sweet guise, 

Would be but Quaker drab beneath our eyes ; 

And melody of bird, and bee, and brook, 

Would be expunged from Nature's sLngiag-book ! 

All Nature laughs through the repeating years — 

Laughs when the first young flower of Spring appears. 

Laughs in the Summer prime of beauteous bloom. 

And sends to heaven its echoes of perfume ; 

Laughs when the Autumn binds its yellow sheaves. 

And reddens in the face as Autumn leaves ; 

Laughs sturdily along November's sky, 

And roars in boisterous mirth when storms are high, 

Battles our windows with a jubilant dbi. 

Or, laughing with the sunshiae, enters in. 

What notes of mirth rise from the shady nooks. 

From birds and insects, foliage and brooks ! 

What peals of laughter shake the concave high. 

When thunder rattles through the summer sky ! 

The lambs run laughing o'er the vernal plain. 

And glad sounds tinkle in the summer rain ! 

Mirth gives a charm to girlhood's fairest grace. 

And limns the generous soul on boyhood's face. 

Sweet girlhood ! changing like the varying wind, — 

Now wild for this, and now for that inclined, — 

Teasing papa with never-endiag needs, 

That he 's " dead broke " if half the list he heeds ; 

Now a piano, now a fan, a ring, 

Now a new dress from such a " charming thing ! " 

He frets — good man — his cash is not a pile. 

Refuses — yields — he 's conquered by a smile. 

And boyhood, rampant with its fun and noise. 

Oft mingles bitter in our cup of joys. 

And many an anxious sigh is made to start, 

And many a throb to heave the parent's heart. 

While watching 'mid the wilfulness of youth 

To see the germs of honesty and truth ! 

0, Ike ! thou elf, who dost with pranks abound, 

Li every home thy counterpart is found ; 

Thy mischief may at times becloud the soul. 

But smile, and half the doubt away shall roll — 



THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 21 

But give the music of an honest laugh. 

And then will vanish all the other half. 

But levity should ne'er its guile obtrude 

To mar the cheerful heart's beatitude ; 

It has no place whei'e genial humor dwells — 

Its home is whei"e the voice of passion swells ; 

Where the red wine glows in the ruddy light, 

And turns to day the watches of the night ; 

Where the hoarse voice, in Bachanalian strain, 

Echoes in chorus with some coarse refrain ! 

Let us be gay, and let our mirth arise 

Before the great AU-Good as sacrifice. 

The source of joy no sombre tribute claims. 

Nor priestly rite, nor sacrificial flames ; 

The heart's outpouring in its happiness 

The smile of kindly heaven will ever bless ; 

So may our purest strains of joy ascend. 

And with unwritten harmonies of heaven blend." 

The reading was followed by many remarks approba- 
tory. Mr. Slow ventured the observation that, thougli 
it was tip-top, it seemed to him strange that so much 
should have been said about fun with so Kttle fun in it ; 
but Dr. Spooner came to the rescue of the poet, by 
saying that in this respect, if it were so, it was like 
many sermons that we hear, all about religion, but 
which did not contain one spark of it ! Philanthropes 
agreed with the sentiment of the poem, and said he had 
thought of recommending to the Provident Association 
the application of laughing gas in neighborhoods where 
poverty prevailed, in order that privation might be 
lessened by the infusion of jocularity. 

At this point there was a loud ringing at the bell, 
and presently a tall, spare, seedy-looking individual 
was introduced, whom Miss Chatterton recognized as 
Signer Lignumvit^e, who taught music in the neighbor- 
hood. Turning to Mrs. Partington, he said, in English 
a trifle muddy, 



22 THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 

^' Madam, zat vat you sail call him, ze plaggy Hike, 
be one ver bad garcon. He no ear for ze music, but 
ven I blow ze horn, and play ze grand opera, he toct 
he's hands, so, " — making a trumpet of his hands and 
tooting, — " and mak all ze music no worth nossing. I 
can no stand it. Eferybody laugh at me. Zey touch 
zar nose, so," — putting his thumb to his nose, — "so 
mosh as to say, ^ Ah, ha ! you be von humboog ! ' You 
sail leek zat plaggy Hike ! " 

" This is a fine opening for a guardian," thought 
Roger, as Mrs. Partington turned her eyes towards 
him. She went out with the Signer, and Roger re- 
marked to Miss Chatterton that there were times when 
he did not regret that he had never been a parent. 

She replied that she deemed none could properly 
direct children, as teachers or guardians, who had not 
children of their own. He thought a moment seriously, 
and then admitted the general correctness of the 
remark. 

" I don't know what I should have been," said he, 
" surrounded by a family, — perhaps a pater-familias of 
rare virtues, — but my heart is whole. I never saw 
occasion to leave the charmed circle of single blessed- 
ness." 

" Were you never in love ? " she questioned. 

" Once," said he, affecting to sigh ,* " everybody, they 
say, is in love once. "When I boarded at 101, a young 
and gallant fellow, there was one fair creature to whom 
I paid many attentions, and some money for certain 
buttons that she attached at sundry times to needy 
garments ; and she gave me, as I thought, indications of 
regard beyond that of a mere landlady's daughter, as 
she was, — a regard usually included in the weekly 
board-bill. I determined not to be cruel, and leave her 



THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 23 

to suffer on account of my indifference. Fortune fixed 
the flint of my affection. 'T was on a night in summer, 
and the gentle air swept across the back-sheds, and 
through the parlor windows of 101, over three consump- 
tive geraniums that attempted to bloom there. As I 
entered, I saw a female figure, clothed in white, by the 
open window, that my heart told me was Seraphima's ! 
I stepped noiselessly towards her, over the tufted 
second-hand carpet, that Seraphima's mamma had bought 
at auction. A moment, and my arm encircled her neck, 

and 1 kissed her ! In another moment I was rolling 

on the floor, with one of Seraphima's flower-pots broken 
upon my head. My heart had deceived me, and I had 
unfortunately kissed another man's wife, which, in those 
days of innocence, was deemed a sacrilege ! An im- 
pression was made by that blow which will never be 
effaced. It is here to this day," — pointing to his 
head. " From that moment Seraphima became obnox- 
ious to me, — all my love for her was knocked out of 
me, — and she died, some fifteen years afterwards, of a 
broken heart and tight lacing.'' 

" It is a wonder," said Mrs. Partington, who had 
returned in time to hear the close of the story ; " it is a 
wonder that it did not give you a suggestion of the 
brain." 

^^ It did, ma'am," replied he ; " and that suggestion 
was, to leave the women alone." 

The door-bell here rang again, and Mrs. Partington 
came in with a queer little, bald-headed man, whose ap- 
pearance denoted an acquaintance with fluids of an 
inflammatory character. He was somewhat confused on 
finding himself in so large a company, and turned to go 
out, when the motion revealed a human face drawn 
roughly in black on the bald scalp behind, like that 



24 THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 

fiinny picture of Johnston's. He turned again, with his 
nose blushing very red, and addressed Mrs. Partington: 

"Madam," said he, "I 've brought myself here to com- 
plain of your Ike. I looked bad enough before, but he 
has made me look a great deal worse, beJiind. I am a 
double-header, — a man beside myself A pretty object, 
are n't I ? I 'm only fit now for a poHtician who wishes 
to be on both sides of the fence at the same time. You 
see, I was a little overcome by the heat of the day, and, 
sitting down a moment in the shade, fell asleep, when 
along comes Ike, and, as you see, he made a marked 
man of me. Everybody says it must be he who did it. 
Could I see with the eyes he has given me behind, I 
might, like some other people, laugh at my own fun, 
which ]orivilege is now^ denied me." 

Mrs. Partington cast a look full of despair upon 
Roger, as she escorted the man to the door. 

" This is certainly a very pleasant young man," said 
he, " with an excellent chance for improvement, and 
considerable of it. I am delighted with my prospect." 

" Should you have to resort to corporal punish- 
ment," said Philanthropes, " I should suggest the brier- 
rose twig, as it will bring the rebel sooner to penitence, 
as Colt's pistols and steam guns tend sooner to bring- 
about peace." 

" I hope you will administer chloroform before you 
apply it," suggested Dr. Spooner; " and, as in the 
new materia medica the efficacy of medicine is tested 
by the doctor's taking it himself, allow me to recom- 
mend, Mr. Philanthropes, that you have it tried upon 
yourself I would be delighted to do it gratuitously." 

" A capital idea ! " said Wideswarth ; " it is worthy 
of a sonnet." 

" Perhaps he could bear the flogging better than he 



THE GUARDIAI^j FOR IKE. 25 

could the sonnet/' said Eoger, in an under tone, punch- 
ing the Brahmin in the ribs, who sat smoking his meer- 
schaum. The Brahmin responded by a grave bow. 
Mrs. Partington returned, holding in her hand an open 
note, which she handed to Roger, in much confusion. 
He read : 

" Miss Pahkinson : Your boy has been and tied a culinary utensile to 
tlie caudle appendidge of a canine favorite of ourn, an indignity that wee 
shall never submit to. He is a reproach to the neighborhood, and you 
must punish him severally. The IVIiss Tbiminses." 

He crushed the paper in his hand, and said, " This is 
a precious litle rascal, to be sure ; and, according to 
present appearances, the chances of finding any good 
in him are about as limited as would be those of finding- 
strawberries growing on the top of Mount Washington.'' 

At this moment the door opened, and the subject of 
their animadversion entered, throwing his hat into a 
corner, and tumbhng down along side of it. 

" Isaac," said the dame, tenderly, " you are causing 
me a great deal of unhappiness. Do you do all the 
mischief there is done in the neighborhood ? " 

" No, I don't, neither," replied Ike : " I don't do half 
so bad as they make out." 

" Did n't you fasten me in ? " said Mr. Slow, coming 
forward. 

•' Yes, sir ] but I should n't have done it, if you 
hadn't been so ugly. No boy would ever trouble you, 
if you 'd be kind to him." 

" True," said Dr. Spooner, " there 's a good deal of 
human nature in a boy." 

" Kindness is better than spring guns as a defence," 

said old Roger, " but the lad seems incorrigible. Here 

j comes another complaint, I dare say," as the door-bell 

rang again. 

8 



26 THE GUARDIAN FOR IKU. 

Mrs. Partington held up lier hands, as she went to 
see who was at the door, and returned with a poor- 
looking woman, who wore a widow's dress. 

^^ I 've dropped in, ma'am, though I 'm a stranger," 
said she, '•' to thank jour manly little boy for taking 
the part of my lame son, when he was imposed upon by 
the bad boys in the street, just now. He drove them 
away like a hero, and punished them for their cowardly 
conduct. And he was not content with this, but he 
gave him a bright silver dime to buy some oranges 
with. A boy with such a heart as his must be a 
treasure to you, and he will prove a comfort to you in 
your old age." 

" There," said Roger, gleefully, rubbing his hands, 
" that one act compensates for all the rest. Had I a 
son like that, I should prize him more than mines of 
gold. Such a boy would make ten years of hard matri- 
mony endurable. Madam, here is a ten-dollar gold 
piece for your information." 

She received it very thanldully, and passed out, 
Involdng on him and the house the widow's blessing. 

" Audi do you forgive him?" said Mrs. Partington, 
Bmihng with gratification. 

'' Yes, madam," he replied; " and boys should be for- 
given far more than they are. A boy that does n't love 
fun is n't always to be trusted ; and the one who has his 
wits about him, and does not take to fun, will, depend 
upon it, take to something worse. Parents mistake 
when they put an unyielding check upon a boy's con- 
duct ; when he gets his way, he will, nine times in ten, go 
differently from his direction, and covert sin will work 
insidiously, maugre all interdiction. I can't bear to see 
a parchment-faced boy, with a ledger in his glance at 
ten. Give me the lad with his soul spealdng in his 



THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 27 

laughing eye, and thrilling in every nerve of his ani- 
mated body. That is your true boyhood. Where 
there is no malice, mischief is not sin. The boys 
commit it as the kids eat fruit-buds, or the birds pick 
Mr. Hovey's strawberries, — it is their nature." 

The speech was received with applause by Ike, who 
had douned his guardian's hat and gloves, and was 
standing leaning on his gold-headed cane. Mrs. Par- 
tington was astonished; Roger was disposed to be 
indignant, but he fortunately remembered what he had 
just said, and contented himself with seeing Ike take 
them off. 

Mrs. Partington bustled about, and in a short time 
announced that tea was awaiting the company in the 
room " contagious " to the sitting-room, where the 
company sat down to the table. Poger was seated di- 
rectly opposite Miss Chatterton, at Mrs. Partington's 
right hand, while by her side Ike had taken his accus- 
tomed position. The rest of the company took their 
places agreeably to their hostess' invitation to " de- 
range " themselves as they could make it convenient. 

There was pleasant music around the board, and 
happy faces beaming amid the steam of the fragrant 
souchong. There was much agreeable conversation 
among all the parties. It was general and discur- 
sive for the most part, though one particular incident 
gave it, to some parties, a tender interest. Ike had 
observed a disposition on the part of his guardian to 
speak low and confidential things to his opposite 
neighbor. Miss Chatterton, and his foot, as he sat by 
her side, just reached that of the old gentleman. He 
thought to himself what a prime thing it would be if he 
could touch his toe and make him beheve that Miss 
Chatterton did it, and resolved to try it. When the 



28 THE GUARDIAN FOR IKE. 

doughnuts were handed round, Roger selected one that 
was heart-shaped and handed it over to his vis-a-vis, with 
the remark, 

" This, my dear Miss Chatterton, is the ' heart that 
never loved.' " 

The lady received it with the reply, " Indeed ! and 
yet, you see, it is broken ; " breaking a piece of it off as 
she spoke. 

" A melancholy fate," said he, " for that which was 
wholly yours.'' 

He was surprised, as he uttered this, to feel a gentle 
pressure upon his foot beneath the table. It was a 
light and careful touch, and bore no semblance to 
accident. 

" As much so as it was the young lady's at 101," 
said she, archly. 

He felt another touch as she spoke, which assured 
him of its origin, and gave him a thrill of pleasure. He 
beamed upon her like the sun upon a planet. 

" And how would you have acted," said he, " had you 
been in her place ? Would you have died in fifteen 
years of a broken heart ? " 

" Can't say that I might not have died before that, of 
some other disease," she replied. 

He felt the touch under the table again, which ope- 
rated upon him like a jar full of electric eels. 

u Were you ever in love. Miss Chatterton ? " said he, 
iji a tremendously deep whisper, as low as G-. 

*' Never with any one but myself," replied she, smil- 
ingly. 

The touch followed the remark, as the sound follows 
the flash. 

" How would you like to be ? " 

" I can't say." 



THE GUARDIAN FOE IKE. 29 

The touch succeeded, to his infinite delight. 

" Miss Chatterton/' said he, reaching over, so that his 
remark might not be heard by any one else but her, 
" you have made a deep impression upon me. Indeed, 
I may say that your foot has touched my heart, — given 
it, so to speak, a finishing touch." 

" My foot touched your heart, sir ! I don't under- 
stand you." 

" Not perhaps hterally," he continued; "but the little 
touches of your foot beneath the table have touched me 
very sensibly." 

" I have not touched you," replied she, very much 
surprised. 

" I see how it is," said he, in some confusion ; " it is 
another instance of the trickery of that plaguy Ike. 
But, be that as it may, you have much interested me, 
and I shall place this evening among the happiest of 
my life." 

Ike, as he saw the denouement of his plot approach- 
ing, had made his escape just in time. During this 
scene the other members of the party had been busily 
talking. 

" Yes," Wideswarth at this point was heard to say, 

" in petty trials are summed up most of the sorrows 

that beset us here. We brace up against large trials, 

and support ourselves by props of resolution ; but the 

little worriments, like the dropping that wears the stone, 

j undermine our temper, and down it comes with a 

! crash, and a confusion of oaths and tears. Please listen 

to a sonnet I have to-day written regarding minor 

I trials : 

Bigger vexations, like a ' fresh ' in spring, 
I Assail the soul in their impetuous "wrath ; 

i The fierce tornado on its course doth Tfing, 

Dashing obstructions from its chosen path ! 
3* 



30 THE GUARDIAI^ FOR IKE. 

But little troubles, like a nibbling mouse. 

Gnaw slowly JBrom our comfort, as 't were clieese ; — 
Take you a smoky chimney to a house, 

Or scolding wife, perpetual bane to ease, 
Or grain within the eye, or gouty feet. 

Or debts unpaid, — exchequer running low, — 
Or htu'dy-gurdy grinding in the street. 

Or six-cent Cubas that you can't make go." 

"Allow me/' said Eoger, "to jDropose, as the two con- 
cluding lines, tlie following' : 

Or one sweet foot of an illusive joy, 

Made less than nothing by a roguish boy." 

" I have no objection to the lines/' repKed Wide- 
swarth, " excepting that of irrelevancy. I cannot ex- 
actly understand — " 

" My dear sir/' said Roger, " that should be no objec- 
tion; for who ever thinks of asking what a sonnet 
means ? I appeal to yourself. We take it for granted 
that a poet sees his own meaning, and out of compli- 
ment ask no questions." 

" I could have suggested a minor difficulty to have 
added to the number," said Philanthropes ; " the ingrat- 
itude one is liable to meet with who tries to do a good 
act. A few days since I saw a dog going along with a 
heavy basket in his mouth, and, thinking of relieving 
him, I attempted to take it from him, meaning to carry 
it myself, when the canineite snapped at me as though 
he suspected my motives." 

" I was much annoyed, a few days since/' said Dr. 
Spooner, " by a trifle which very much disturbed my 
equanimity. I was passing a lady whose dress spread 
over an area about equal to that of a load of hay, when 
I accidentally stepped upon her flounce. An unmis- 
takable tear foHowed, at which I looked round to ap.olo- 



THE GUARDIAN FOE IKE. 31 

gize. But my contrition and shame all vanished before 
the look she gave me. It was the concentration of 
spitefulness, and, instead of apologizing, I asked myself 
the question if she were not the aggressor in protruding 
herself upon my path, and so I passed on ; but it dis- 
turbed me." 

" A nervous wife," said Blifkins, " is a consideration 
in this direction." He said it timidly. 

^' All fade away before rheumatism in the ankle," said 
old Roger. 

" Are you subject to romantic affections ? " inquired 
Mrs. Partington, with anxiety in her tone and a spoon 
in her hand. " My poor Paul was terribly infected by 
them one winter, when we lived contagious to the 
marshes." 

The door-bell rang violently, and the old lady went 
out to see who caused the alarm. She came back 
immediately. 

" There was nobody there," said she. " Well, as I 
was saying, he had an affectation in his back, and an 
embargo in his head, and a vertebra all over him. He 
could n't move without resistance." 

The door-bell rang again, which she attended to with 
the same result. 

" I 'm shore," said she, " I don't see who it can be. 
Well, as I was pretending to say, our minister sent for 
him, right in the midst of his trouble, to come and cut 
up a pig for him. Nothing would do but he must go 
So he crawled out, and just as he was going up over 'a 
little hill, holding on to the fence — " 

The door-bell rang the third time. 

" Well," said Mrs. Partington, as she rose to go, 
' bells can't ring without hands, unless they ^re rung by 
the spirits. Perhaps it 's them." 



V2 THE GUAEDIAX FOE IKE. 

'• Well, by all means ask them in/' responded Koger, 
" it will give new spirits to our party.'' 

" I can't see, for the life of me, what it means," said 
she, coming back from the door ; " bnt, as I was teUing 
you, as he was going over the hill his feet slipped, and 
he was prostituted from the top to the bottom. He got 
up, strange to say, as well as he ever was in his life. 
The remedy is very simple." 

"So it is," said he, " and I think I '11 try it, some 
time." 

The fact that Ike came in just then, coupled with the 
recent ringing, gave evidence of the cause of the latter, 
and Roger looked at him with an expression denoting 
a guardian's feehngs. 

" Ike," said he, " come here ,• I am to have a hand in 
your bringing up. Now, I have to tell you that you 
must toe the mark ; be obedient, dutiful, and respect- 
ful, or you villain ! that is my toe you are kick- 
ing.'' 

" Is the touch as tender as the one you just now 
received ? " said ^Miss Chatterton, with a sly manner. 

" Xo more of that," said he, smiling amid*his pain, 
•• if thon lovest me. That illusion was a pleasant one, 
which may yet, I hope, through propitious fates, become 
a reality." 

The party had by this time arisen, and, as he uttered 
the sigTiificant expression, he took her hand, which she 
did not withdraw, and whispered in her ear, 

•' It is a strange thing, — but there are many strange 
things happening all the time, — that an obdurate old 
bachelor should have been thus subjugated, and by such 
means : but I am conJ&dent that it is a good fate which 
has brought us together, for which I must thank that 
plaguy Ike." 



AUTUMN. 33 

She touclied his foot, — not the gouty one, — and 
smiled, and the conquest was complete. 

The party now rose to depart, but before they went 
expressed their undivided delight, Dr. Spooner averring 
that he had, for a long time, been seeking for the delect- 
able, but had never come so near its attainment before ; 
proposing Mrs. Partington's health, which was drunk, 
" paregorically," as she afterwards expressed it. 

She returned thanks, stating that she was very ful- 
some with her emotions, and ready to make any sacra- 
ment for their happiness. And this was the way the 
guardianship for Ike began. 



AUTUMN 



Hail ! beauteous queen — (not literally, please ! 

Thy reign I 'd rather signalize in verse ;) — 
My full heart drops in homage on its knees. 

The while thy glories it would fain rehearse. 
Blest of Pomona, thy redundant horn 

Is full of fruitage, and around thy brow 
Bright vines are twined, with berries that adorn 

Thy golden ringlets with a ripened glow ! 
Ceres her trophies brings, and at thy feet 

Pours out the bounteous harvest's golden rain. 
And gushing wine, in pipes, makes music sweet. 

While sturdy Plenty dances in thy train. 
0, Autumn! I cotdd sing a song sublime 
In praise of thee, from now till Christmas time. 



34 TWENTY YEARS MARRIED. 

TWENTY YEAES MARRIED. 

Yes, twenty years have Tringed their fligM, 

Since that mysterious word I spoke, 
"When, on a beauteous summer night, 

I first assumed the flowery yoke. 
I long had craved the blissful chain. 

And cheerfully subscribed the vow ; 
Perhaps I 'd do the same again — 

Perhaps — though I am older now. 

Ah ! well do I recall the time 

When she, now pensive by my side. 
Stood, in her blushing morning prime, 

A tender, sweet, and bashful bride ; 
And I, so proud of that dear hand. 

Could scarce contain myself for bliss; — 
I 'd bought a tract of faiiy land. 

And sealed my purchase with a kiss. 

For happiness we trimmed our sail. 

My darling little bride and I ; 
Hope's breezes blew a pleasant gale. 

And gently smiled the summer sky. 
The world seemed made, for her and me. 

All bright wherever we might turn, 
Oiu" life to be a tranquil sea — 

Sweet innocents ! we 'd much to learn. 

For soon did Care's disturbing breath 

Its baleful influence impart, 
And bitter sorrow, bom of death, 

O'ercast the sunshine of our heart ; 
But still, as trouble round us rose. 

Each closer, fonder, clung to each. 
Blessed with the strength of love's repose, 

Enduring all that grief could teach. 

We 'd much of joy, though small our sphere. 
And craved no more extended fame. 

For children made our dwelling dear, — 
'T was wonderful how fast they came ! — > 

*' The more the merrier," we said. 
And in them every wish was blest ; 



TWENTY YEARS MARRIED. 35 

A part in our embrace have staid, 
A mound at Woodlawn tells the rest. 

Those twenty years have left their trace 

Upon her brow, then smooth and fair. 
And stolen, some say, the witching grace 

That once her features used to wear ; 
But still I see the same kind eyes 

Beam on me with a light as true 
As when, in love's young paradise, 

I first their inspiration knew. 

And I — well, well — we '11 let that pass ; — 

None more than I time's changes see. 
Each day I shave myself, — alas ! 

My mirror does not flatter me ; 
But if I 'm changed for worst or best 

I cannot answer, on my life. 
And leave the solving of this test 

To such as choose to ask my wife. 

This lesson we have fully learned : 

Pure happiness that men have deemed 
Is but a hope soon overturned, 

A vision but in fancy dreamed ; 
That all of happiness below. 

Pursuing which the life is spent 
In mingled scenes of bliss and woe. 

Is measured by the word content. 

Though fortune may withhold its smile, 

As it has done in time before, 
Content shall still our way beguile. 

And rest the future landscape o'er. 
The future ! — who its tale may tell ? — 

But for it we 've nor doubts nor fears, 
And like our life that 's past so well. 

We '11 try another twenty years. 
Aug. 15th, 1858. 



36 WHOLE-SOULED FELLOWS. 

WHOLE-SOULED FELLOWS 

'^ Speaking of this class," said Dr. Spooner, " I am 
delighted to acknowledge their excellence, and would 
go far to shake such by the hand ; but perhaps my esti- 
mate of the whole-souledness of the individual might be 
different from yours, for my comprehension demands 
quality, as an essential element of the whole. A whole- 
souled man, as some of you seem to regard it, is one of 
warm, impulsive nature, open-handed and lavish ; quali- 
ties,! grant ye, that are essential, — for soul is feeling, and 
not a merely cold mechanism ; but generosity must be 
a thing of principle as well as natural impulse — the 
spiritual man in harmony with the natural man. This 
leads to acts that insure the title of whole-souled fellow. 
In one case, a fellow may be whole-souled in compan- 
ionship, and spend money as freely as water with you, 
but his soul is vitiated ; another may be generous to a 
fault, and an admiring world approve him and say he is 
a whole-souled fellow, but look through him a little, and 
you will find a great under-current of selfishness, that, 
were it known, would detract from the general admira- 
tion. I know one who bears the reputation, who is really 
a very good fellow, socially, that employs hundreds of 
girls at starvation rates in the manufacture of garments, 
and makes a princely salary at the expense of their life 
and comfort. Though nominally a whole-souled fellow, 
any man who thus for his own gain will sacrifice 
others is egregiously fiattered by the imputation. So 
of those who give largely of money that they cannot 
spend. There is no soul in it. There is craft in it, 
that assumes the form of soul, which men materially 
cased regard as soul, through their dim spiritual specta- 
cles. The widow's mite that was cast into the treasury 
swells to a mountain, in comparison with such an act. 



BEHIND THE SCENES. 37 

The whole-soTiled fellow that I believe in is he who, 
warmed by natural kindness, blossoms out and fructifies 
in justice and right, ignoring self, and struggling con- 
tinually for human betterment, from the betterment law 
existing in himself — whose life is a continued example 
of persistent generosity." Well, what 's the use of 
talking about what everybody knows ? And yet there 
may be some whole-souled fellows who are not entitled 
to so generous or good an appellation. 



BEHIND THE SCENES. 

Could we get behind the scenes of life, and observe 
the workings of the machinery, and the various traps 
and shiftings and changes that are taking place all the 
time, we should be half inclined to distrust the absolute 
virtue of much that passes for such, and see, faintly at 
least, through a great deal of villany, some good, that 
the removal of the, whiskers and washing off of the 
paint might reveal. Behind the scenes and before them 
is exhibited pretty much the same thing ; the counter- 
feit seeming the real, and much of the real being noth- 
ing but counterfeit. And, speaking of going behind 
the scenes, to one unacquainted with such locality as 
the stage of a theatre the first permission to enter that 
mysterious province is the open sesame to many won- 
ders ; revealing to him how it is all done : — how the 
roses of health and happiness may glow on cheeks pallid 
and hollow with care ; and how the lines of sorrow may 
appear, from the adroit touches of paint, upon brows 
not yet marked by a wrinkle ; how fierceness and malig- 
nity may flourish on faces where the kindest spirit rests, 
through the magic of burnt cork and false mustachios ; 
and how injured innocence and rank villany are allied, 



38 woman's sovereignty. 

when a little soap and water bring them together at the 
close of the drama ! He sees men stt the wings, like 
special providences, controlling the different moods of 
scenic life ; here shifting a house of comfort and afflu- 
ence to a beggar's hut, and there producing upon what 
was a "blasted heath " a bower of roses. He sees the 
elegance that from the front gleamed in the beauty of 
scenic art transformed to a mere daub, the paint appar- 
ently thrown on by the handful ; and architectural mag- 
nificence but a mere frame-work of rough pine, held up 
by props from behind. It is a new emotion to him, such 
a queer admixture does it present of all sorts of life in 
one little world — the grave and the gay, the good and 
the bad, mingling together with a freedom of manner 
very different from the marked antagonism of the out- 
ward presentment. He wanders through the ins and outs 
and labyrinthine turnings of the strange place, puzzled 
at a thousand new things, and half regretting that the 
illusion should have been dispelled in whose deception 
he has so long happily lived. 



WOMAN'S SOVEREIGNTY. 

We 'ke swayed a tliousand ways by woman's wiles, 

And every day admit her soTereign power : 
Vf e bend, delighted, to her potent smiles. 

We bend when tears outpour in plenteous shower ; 
Her witchery of grace bows low our hearts. 

Her winning voice has conquest in its tone. 
We yield us captive to the myriad arts 

That round our pathway hem us like a zone. 
By her sweet lips we swear our lives away. 

We vow eternal homage to her eyes. 
The raven curl round her white neck astray 

The magic of her power intensifies ! 
But most we bow beneath sweet woman's sway, 
When walking 'neath a clothes-line on a washing day. 



PETS. 39 

PETS. 

It is an amiable human weakaess, is the love of pets ; 
and the one who " crunches " them in his heart, as Gruff 
and Tackleton did the crickets on his hearth, has little 
affection for anything else. The love that one expends 
on pets is auxiliary to a higher and holier affection, and 
does not take from it ; as it may be classed with loves of 
kindred and friends, that may be infinite in their scope, 
and yet be consistent with the one grand central affec- 
tion, and strengthen and sanctify it. Pets come in many 
forms. The heart loves dogs, and birds, and flowers, 
and at times queer objects become invested with an in- 
terest which almost takes the phase of disease. A 
sweet little human pet of our own, that now rests in a 
land where love is the life it lives, unalloyed with the 
pains that marred it here, had a strange proclivity for 
toads. The little creature loved everything that lived, 
but in the summer-time it was her delight to visit the 
garden and find her uncouth favorites, and watch their 
ungainly movements with a pleasure that one might ex- 
pend on a rose or a canary. A Httle book was published, 
a few years since, by Grace Greenwood, called "His- 
tory of my Pets." We have a thumbed and soiled copy 
of that book, which money could not buy. It was 
owned by another pet of ours, who, years ago, went 
down the dark valley and left us. It was a solace to 
him in all his hours of trouble and pain. The sight of 
that book mollified his grief, and his sobs would subside 
to smiles as his eyes rested on the pictures. The fancy 
has been cherished that the loving spirit still rests 
about the book, and hence it becomes a pet in itself, 
sacred from the contamination of use. From its pages 
the beautiful brown eyes seem to look up, and the cheer- 
ful laugh sounds again in the glee of delighted child- 



40 BY CHANCE. 

hood; and we renew again, for a moment, the old-time 
presence, until the dream dies in the light of material 
care, and the book is laid sacredly in its niche again. 
Those pets that come in the human form, how we cling 
to them and idolize them, to have them, alas ! fade from 
our arms in exhalation, as the dew fades from the flow- 
ers, seemingly crushed by the intensity of the affection 
with which we enfold them. But the heart follows 
them, and we hear a voice that speaks comfort to our 
soul, saying, " These pets ye shall behold again ! " and 
we still look in the way they have gone. 



BY CHANCE 



The venerable Mrs. Partington asked us the question, 
once, if we believed that everything was foreordained 
beforehand in advance, and we were compelled to an- 
swer that sometimes we did, and then again we did n't. 
Some time after, we were sitting looking over the papers, 
when the door opened and Mrs. P. stepped in. There 
was a smile on her face, and the old green umbrella in 
her hand. After welcoming her and requesting her to 
be seated, she said, " Well it 's all lubricated now ; just 
as clear to me as crystial." — " What is ? " we queried, a 
little puzzled to know what she meant. — " That about 
foreordination, you know, and chance, and all that, 
which we were talking about." — "Ah, yes; well, how 
was it ? " — " Why, I 'tended the lectur' last night — one 
of the eternity course." — " Fraternity," we suggested ; 
" who spoke ? " — " 0, Mr. what 's his name — he that 
made the refrigerator, you know, for warming houses 
in summer and cooling 'em in winter — Emerson — T. 
P. Emerson." — " You mean R. W. Emerson," we hinted ; 
" did he lecture on refrigerators ? " — " 0, dear, no ! 



MliS. PARTINGTON AND THE RUSSIAN HELMET. 41 

't was on chance ; and sich a lectur' ! I thought I 'd 
heerd lectiirs before, but that succeeded 'em all." — " In- 
deed ! " we said, somewhat interested, though there were 
eleven letters unopened on the table, " teU us about it." 
— "Well," she continued,"it was about chance, and he is 
sich a queer man that you have to watch every word or 
you can't understand him. If you lose one word, it 's 
jest like a stitch broke in a seam made by some of the 
sowing-machines — the work is good for nothing. Well, 
he said there was no sich thing as chance, and that every 
thing was planned out beforehand. And, to prove it, he 
spoke of a ship on the sea, knocked about by the winds 
and waves, and showed, just as loosed as anything I 
ever saw, that she was not there by chance, or that she 
was, and I declare I don't know which." The old lady 
reached down into her spacious pocket, and, taking out 
the old Constitution and Guerriere handkerchief, wiped 
her specs, as though she wished still for more light, 
while Ike amused himself by trundling Lion round the 
room, by his two hind legs, like a wheelbarrow. 



IMES. PARTmGTON AND THE RUSSIAN HELIMET. 

" Is that a tropic of the Chimera ? " said Mrs. Parting- 
ton, pointing to a Russian helmet that a friend had 
brought from the Crimea. — " That, Madam," said we, 
'' is a trophy of the Crimea, that fearful battle-ground, 
and it seems to bear about it the odor of strife in the 
perilous deadly breaches, and the crash of contending 
forces." She looked at it attentively. " Yes," responded 
she, " and not only the breeches, but the rest of the 
uniform besides." It was evident that she had made a 

slight mistake. 

4* 



42 WHO IS VILE? 

WHO IS VILE? 

'^ She 's a vile creature/' said the severe woraan, look- 
ing very red in the face. The conversation had been 
upon the propriety of recognizing one who had fallen 
from virtue, if fame were to be believed, and the severe 
woman, whose purity could not be questioned, closed 
her side of the argument with the remark commencing 
this paragraph. Dr. Spooner arose from the table and 
stepped behind his chair, as children do in schools when 
called upon to recite. ''The term vile, madam,"- said 
he, looking at the severe woman, " is a very strong one 
coming from human lips, and those who utter it should 
be very sure that they stand on sure ground themselves. 
Because great imperfection may be imputed to any one, 
it does not follow that the whole body is corrupt. 
There may be beneath all this corruption a stratum of 
pure soil, in which good seeds may grow, — in which, 
indeed, they may be now germinating, — that may not 
shoot their leaf up through the crust of sin and degra- 
dation that keeps them down, but may throw out 
the tendrils of an undying principle, that, deeper than 
the flesh, will one day find an outgrowth in other airs, 
and shame those who, wrapt in their own sensuous 
perfectibility, have not allowed a spiritual seed to 
grow. Yile, indeed ! The expression comes with a 
poor grace from any unless they have the scale and 
balance by a special patent from heaven with which 
to weigh human wrong, and it should be carefully 
used. I once knew a case where a good woman and a 
bad woman made custards for a sick person, and both 
met in the sick room — the one with a proud spirit that 
she was not like the wicked one, the other humble and 
retiring, as if ashamed of herself. But the good wom- 
an's custards were made of skimmed milk and sweet- 



THE HOUSEHOLD GHOST. 43 

ened with brown sugar, and the bad woman's wero 
made very deliciously; and the sick one fancied that the 
souls of both those persons were seen in the custard- 
cups ; and in the comparative estimate he found more 
intrinsic excellence in the bad woman than in the good 
woman, and believed, as he still believes, that many 
transgressions, that spring from human weakness, 
will be forgiven, for the sparks of love that may be 
still smouldering deeply within. I see you laugh at my 
homely illustration ; but it is a life-picture, treat it as 
you may. Let us call them unfortunate, rather than^ 
vile, and humble ourselves to regard them with charity." 
The severe woman looked very red, but said nothing 
further till the doctor was gone. 



THE HOUSEHOLD GHOST. 

BELNG AH ACCOUNT OF A VERT SINGULAR VISION SEEN FROM BENEATH THE 
BLANKETS ON A COLD NIGHT. 

With a silent ft)ot, unshod. 

In the mystery of the night, 
Light the flitting phantom trod, 

Glimmerrag in ghostly white. 

Cold the north wind blew without, 

Scattering terror as it sped. 
Rattling at the crazy spout 

And the clattering tiles o'erhead. 

On the window-pane at hand 

Grew the web the frost-sprites spin. 

But 't was very summer-land 
Where the ghost kept ward within. 

Here and there amid the night 

Eye the mystic form could trace. 
Floating in its garments white. 

With its anxious-looking face ; 



14 MRS. PARTINGTON PATRIOTIC. 

Bending o'er the nestlings' couch 
With a kiss so sweetly given. 

That the sleepers felt the touch 
As a token dreamed of heaven. 

Such a mighty power was there ! — 
"Waking, by a single breath, 

Smiles of happiness most rare 
On the lips of sembled death ! 

Far amid life's later night. 

Sad and dark with sin and pain, 

In its drapery of white 

Will the phantom walk again. 

With its calm eyes true and clear, 
And its finger raised above. 

Breathing in the troubled ear 
Accents of a Mother's love. 



MES. PARTINGTON PATRIOTIC. 

" Hurra ! " said Ike, as he read the fact in the papers, 
^' here 's O'Regan admitted to the Union." " A furriner, 
T should jedge/' remarked Mrs. Partington, looking very 
wisely at the steam that rose from the tea-cnps and 
formed in one cloud near the ceihng ; " but I 'm glad 
they Ve let him come in to enjoy onr political rights 
and lefts, and other perogatives. There 's room enough, 
and the rear of our institutions should be distended. I 
don't believe a man should be cut off because he was n't 
born in this country for twenty-one years, which of 
course wasn't any fault of his, for everybody would be 
born here if they could have their own auction con- 
sulted."—" It means," said Ike, " a new State."—" Well, 
child," replied she, " the odds is only the difference — 
States or men, 'tis all the same. Let 'em come into our 
grand consternation, where the eagle shall spread its 



WEANING THE BABY. — HOME MUSIC. 45 

broad opinions over 'em, and make 'em happy in an un- 
limited bondage of brotherhood, like the Siamese twins." 
She had not taken her eyes from the steam that rose 
from the cups, and joined in one cloud, that seemed to 
represent the Union she was depicting. Ike had a 
better illustration, for he took the five preserved peaches 
on the plate, and put them all into one. 



WEANING THE BABY. 

There 's trouble in the liouse, and Bulb in arms 

Protests, with stentor lungs and brimming eyes, 
Against this greatest of his earthly harms, 

The order cutting off his small supplies. 
With stormy brow — a tempest in a bowl — 

fie bellows with a most determined might. 
Disclosing fierceness in his infant soul. 

That in the Infantry may some day fight. 
We speak of sorrows — what are they to Bub's, 

And the maternal's, half disposed to yield ? 
'T is hard to find, amidst earth's minor rubs, 

A trouble near so sad as is revealed 
Where the accustomed lacteal rations stop. 
And infant lungs, like Dives, bellow for a drop. 



HOME MUSIC, 



A:n old square piano — " Chickering, Boston" — has 
occupied a corner in a moderate home for a number of 
years, and been regarded as a necessity. It has been a 
true friend, for its influence has ever tended towards 
harmonization. However discordant other elements 
may have been, — and there may have been times when 
some of the dust and pins of life got in among the hu- 
man organism to produce temporary jarring and inhar- 
mony, — the old piano has rung ever truly and cheer- 
fully, responsive to the touch. It has been a household 



46 HOME MUSIC. 

pet. Practised fingers have picked sweet melodies 
from it ; but all, the unskilled as well, have tried their 
hand at it. Even the youngest is great at fingering. 
It has been a pleasant thing with him who is the osten- 
sible head of the household to sit, in the repose of the 
evening, the care of the world shut out with the closed 
curtains, and hear some one, in the unstudied grace 
and glow of home inspiration, unlock the gates of mel- 
ody with the piano-keys, and trip away over melodious 
meadow fields and gather the humble flowers of song to 
wreathe in a garland about the hearth-stone — none of the 
lofty and high-studied themes, that arouse mighty plaud- 
its where Thalberg or Lang is their exponent, but just a 
simple melody or two, awakening fond memories of old 
times, or thrilling with the consciousness of £f new pleas- 
ure. Ah ! this is the acme of musical delight, though 
there be those who revel in high-seasoned opera, and turn 
up their august noses at the humble home-strains alluded 
to. There is a pleasure, besides, when one is in his 
remote corner, busied with book or pen, to have a 
strain come to him of some remembered song, fraught 
with gentleness and happiness. His task is forgotten, 
as he listens, and he beats time on his palm, gazing I 
abstractedly at nothing, and yet how much he sees ! No : 
wonder that his thought should run to rhyme ; and of 
late, when thus held by a spell, and diviner melodies 
entered his soul through the opened doors of fancy, 
the following rhapsody came to ^'the writer," and 
wrought itself in form upon paper ; and this is the I 
guise in which it revealed itself: 

Essence of lore divine ! 
O'er my soul like the spirit of wiae 
Thou stealest, and in rapt dream 
Sense merges in that stream 



HOME MUSIC. 47 

Of resonant delight we deem to flow 

From God's own presence, where we know 

The Harmonies abide, and music fills 

The broad heavens, as the blood thrills 

Through these terrestrial veins ; 

And where celestial strains 

Are thought and language that impart, 

In quick accord from heart to heart. 

The golden sympathy which there obtains ' 

Music ! — 0, subtle mastery 

That sets my spirit free 

From the tired body and its care. 

Which, light as bird in air, 

Eises upon the joyous wings 

That buoyant melody brings — 

Finding sweet sympathy with flowers 

In the everlasting bowers, 

And with fair earthly blooms 

That fling their rich perfumes 

Over the summer days. 

And with the genial rays 

The sun in his loving temper sheds 

Upon the spring-time flower-beds, 

And with bees and running brooks," 

And quiet, pleasant nooks. 

Where the birds sing, and the breeze 

Is busy with the gossipy trees. 

And with all that 's beautiftd and bright ^ 

And loving, given for man's delight ! 

I yield me to thy power. 

Great spirit of the hour ! 

Bound by thy magic spell. 

My heart, responsive to the swell 

Of thy wild measure, swings 

In its turret, and my whole being sings 

In unison with that which wings 

Its way o'er vibratory strings 

Of subtle air, whose pulsings greet 

My ear in this remote retreat. 

As I list to mark the fading feet 

Die out in distance of the last cadence sweet. 



48 MES. PARTINGTON AT THE BALLET. — FLOWERS. 

MRS. PARTINGTON AT THE BALLET. 

"When is tlie bally troop coming on ?" said Mrs. Part- 
ington, after watching the dancers at the Boston Theatre 
about half an hour. — " That is the ballet troupe/"' said 
Augustus, with a smile, pointing at the beautiful sylphs 
that were fluttering hke butterflies about the stage. She 
looked at him incredulously for a little while, and said : 
'' WeU, I beheve in calling things by their true names ; 
and what they call them a troop for, I don't see. I 
thought it was a troop of horse, such as they had in the 
Contract of the Ganges." She levelled her new opera- 
glass at the stage, and looked long and earnestly. 
" Well," said she, " if there ever was anybody that 
needed sympathy, it 's them ! Worn their dresses way up 
to their knees by dancing, poor creaturs ! and by and 
by, at this rate, they won't have nothing to wear." She 
stood beating time as the waves of gauze moved hither 
and thither in illustration of the poetry of motion, 
while Ike amused himself by tearing up his theatre-bill, 
and putting it into a lady's siUv hood, which hung over 
the back of the front seat. 



FLOWERS. 

Didst ever tldnk how simple flowers bloom. 

And shed their beauties on the summer air. 
Each giving forth its measure of perfume. 

Or gladdening earth by its effulgence rare — 
Unheeding aught that flattering lips may speak, 

Nor taking airs upon themselres at praise. 
Doing their duty with a carriage meek. 

And cheering all their little life of days ? 
No jealous riyalry contention brings. 

As in more beauteous circles far than these ; 
No piide impels the blossom as it swings 

To make some humbler sister ill at ease ; 
But each one blooms with its own charms content, 
Nor, if excelled, cares it a single scent. 



INVOLUNTARY. 49 



INVOLUNTARY. 

An amusing instance of an involuntary performance 
happened, some years ago, in a church not far from 
Boston. The organist was a splendid musician, but had 
an infirmity with which, we are glad to believe, very 
few of his brethren are now troubled, — he would crook 
his elbow after dinner, and was too ready to " look upon 
the wine when . it is red.'^ It made very little differ- 
ence, however, in his playing, even though he had 
dipped in "potations pottle deep." One Sunday, he came 
to church remarkably hilarious. There was an unusu- 
ally bright sparkle in his eye, and his white fingers ran 
over the keys in most profuse liquidity, producing 
sounds that, while they were very beautiful, were so 
undisguised that even the dullest could not but under- 
stand that there was something queer about the organ- 
ist, and that their own solemnly-dedicated organ was 
playing anything but the legitimate airs of their Zion. 
People nudged one another, the more rigid with frown- 
ing looks, some with surprise, and others, of the unde- 
vout, with an appreciating grin. The pastor hesitated 
when giving out the first hymn ; but the organ never 
did so well, and redeemed itself from the obloquy of its 
recent suspicious conduct. The congregation rose for the 
prayer, — the people did so in those days, — when, just 
at the hush of the performance, while all were intently 
listening to catch the voice of the pastor, as it emerged 
from the hoarse whisper of the opening, the organ gave 
a frightful scream, that smote the ear like the laughter 
of fiends, echoing from every nook and corner of the 
old church. The pastor stopped in his prayer, and 
opened his eyes ; the audience turned round, and every 
eye was bent on the organ-loft. The organist had risen 
5 



50 SIGNS OP FALL. 

with the rest, but his efforts to preser\ o hia equilibrium 
had proved unavailing, and he had tumbled over upon 
the key-board, producing the fearful " involuntary," as 
he reached his hands out to save himself. Conscious 
of the disorder, and confused by the looks turned upon 
him, he recovered himself, and, holding out his hand 
towards the minister, said in an unsteady but patron- 
izing voice, ^' Or ri, sir ; drive on ! " This ,broke the 
back of all propriety, and it was thought that the prayer 
which followed did the audience but little good. 
Another organist was engaged before the next Sunday. 



SIGNS OF FALL. 

The curious mad comes searching through the street. 

With bodings bitter, 
Whirling around the quick pedestrian's feet 

Whole heaps of litter. 

The traders all -withdraw their fragile stock 

Of lace and muslins, 
Unable to withstand the testy shock 

Of Autumn's tusslings. 

Delaines and thibets float upon the air 

In tempting manner. 
And Balmorals are dancing eyerywhere. 

Like many a banner. 

And winter furs come on us unperceiyed. 

Of fitch or sable. 
And madam and the girls, their cloaks achieved. 

Are comfortable. 

And little Tommy takes his winter boots 

From where he 's thrown them ; 
Alas ! he tries, and finds that neither suits, 

For he 's outgrown them. 



ike's speing medicine. 51 

The vine looks sickly on the trellis high, — 

The leaves all curling, 
And eveiy breeze that hastens rudely by 

Sets them to -whirling. 

The old spout, hanging by a single nail. 

Laments and nxitters, 
As if in meek remonstrance with the gale 

That threatening utters. 

The summer birds have left their breezy haunt 

Among our branches, 
And moved upon their regular annual jaunt 

To ■warmer ranches. 

Huge heaps of coal defile the sidewalk way. 

And we — confound 'em ! — 
Must o'er their yielding heights a path essayj 

Or travel round 'em. 

And many bills thrust in their leech-like length. 

With items fearful. 
Testing the purse whose corresponding strength 

Is never near full. 

The biting airs the shrinking flesh appall 

By sharp incisions. 
And everything proclaims the approach of Fall, 

Except provisions. 



IKE'S SPRING MEDICINE. 

'^ Isaac, what is the matter ? " said Mrs. Partington, 
in the morning, as Ike bounded into the room, jumped 
over a table, kicked down a chair, and concluded with 
turning a somerset, by which operation he succeeded 
in knocking two plates from the dresser. " What ails 
you ? Are you possessed, or what ? Such abolitions 
of feelings are not pretty." There was a severity 
in her tone, and she stood looking at the boy through 
her spectacles, as a pair of Lutheran windows might 



52 PARTING. 

look down on a Bantam chicken. Ike stopped as 
she spoke, but looked up roguishly in her face, while 
he replied, ^'Didn't you tell me to take my brim- 
stone and molasses three mornings, and then skip 
three ? This is the first mo:!^ning to skip, and I 'm a 
doing of it." The dame smiled slightly, as she replied, 
" You must be more apprehensive in going through the 
world, or you may get apprehended, my dear. It would 
make you too sulfurious to take your spring medicine 
every morning, so I thought you might pass over three 
mornings." — " Should n't I be a Jew," said Ike, feehng 
the shape of his nose, " to passover three mornings ? " 
Mrs. Partington, whether she was aware of the atrocity 
or not, said nothing further, and Ike and Lion went out 
for a roU on the grass. 



PAETING, 



We speak of parting o'er the opening grave 

Where weary nature finds a fitting rest. 
The while, to anxious doubts and fears a slave. 

Dire anguish clouds the sunshine of the breast ; 
We speak of parting when we bid farewell 

To some tried spirit kindred with our own, 
And 'gainst the fortune doth the heart rebel 

Through whose obtrusion those we prize have flown ; 
But, ! how feebly does the word convey 

The thought of that black severance of fate. 
When those we 've loved have torn themselves away, 

And merged their friendship 'neath the clouds of hate ! — 
That living death, from dull indifference born. 
That knows, to follow it, no resurrection morn. 



ASSIMILATION. 53 

ASSIMILATION. 

A WORD about diet — the matters that we eat, and 
their effects upon us. We are made from the dust of 
the earth, not by being shaped in the human mould and 
pushed upon the stage to enact our part, but by eating 
dirt-pies, made up in the several forms of beef and 
mutton and vegetables, and grow to our limit of phys- 
ical hfe by the accretions of dust, in some form or 
another, that we pick up as we go along. This is all 
that it amounts to, and, however we may disguise it 
with nice condiments, and lay claim to a higher origin 
than dust, the fact is, nevertheless. Whether in form 
of choice wines or rich preserves, or dishes whose del- 
icacy is the acme of desire, it resolves itself to this. 
The question, then, comes up, like Sam Weller's of the 
red-nosed man, with regard to the particular kind of 
vanities that he preferred, which sort of dust is best ? 
Here is a chance for division, where individual tastes 
will take issue. The lovers of beef and the lovers of 
macaroni will contend for the mastery, — the animal 
and the vegetable. It is, we think, an established fact 
that a man partakes of the nature of what he eats. The 
man who eats beef, for instance, becomes of most oxlike 
and sinewy ponderosity, according to this rule, while 
he who partakes of the delicate flesh of the marsh night 
ingale must become indued with the flexibility of a 
dancing-master. Feasters upon wild game and swift 
fish are fast men, those who cotton to pop-corn are 
remarkably snappy in conversation, while those who 
indulge in apples or acid articles may be known by the 
acerbity of their character. Narrowing the rule down 
to sausages, those who fancy this sort of food are 
remarkable for no particular trait, though their conduct 



54 COMPARISON. — MALAPROPOS. 

is somewhat highly seasoned with a strong tendency to 
the sage. It is not ascertained that eating tomatoes 
will induce redness of the cheeks, or parsley any par- 
ticular facihty for learning grammar, or walnuts any 
higher aspirations ; but this much we may be sure of, 
that gross feed is inimical to clear thought, and modera- 
tion in diet is a great helper to spiritual and intellectual 
advancement. 



COMPARISON, 



I SAW a Nun, upon a day, who moved, 

In queer attire clad, and eyes cast down ; 
As though to breathe God's air were task unloved, 

I gathered from the shadow of her frown. 
Beside her walked a maiden bright and fair, — 

A lovely one, with cheeks of ruddy hue ; 
Young loves lay nestling in the twining hair. 

That round her head in sweet luxuriance grew. 
A smile was on her lip, a contrast great 

With the unbending parchment of the face 
That by her gloomed, and on her seemed to wait 

The blest attendants of a loving grace. 
If which were holiest I were called to say. 
The holiness of beauty would decide the day. 



MALAPROPOS, 



* I DECLARE," said Mrs. Partington, as Miss Waggles, 
the daughter of the green grocer, looked in upon her 
in the fuU feather of extreme fashion ; " you look as if 
you had just come out of the upper drawer, and smell 
as sweet as the balm of Gilead." Mss Waggles smiled, 
smoothed down her stiff silk, — just bought, — and 
tossed her head daintily, on the back of which hung the 
new bonnet that she had come in on purpose to show. 




How loi>g is it, Dear, since it was dyed and turned. 



P. 55. 



MES. PARTINGTON ON SURPKISE PARTIES. 55 

" Does that calico wash, dear ? " asked the old ladj, 
without taking her spectacles from her forehead. She 
did not see the blush that suffused the Waggles as the 
green grocer's daughter informed her that it was silk. 
" Dear me," exclaimed she, taking hold of it ; " so it is ; 
how well you have kept it ! It looks as good as new. 
If some girls had worn it, it would have all been in rags 
before now. How long is it, dear, since it was dyed 
and turned V — " It is new," said Miss Waggles, sup- 
pressing a hoop and extending a spiteful feeling at the 
same time. — "Is it, indeed?" responded the dame. 
" Well, my visionary organs do deceive me so, that 1 
believe that I am growing near-sighted ; but are you 
going to have a new bonnet to match ? " This was 
putting the agony on too thick; it was the grain that 
broke the back of the camel. Miss Waggles remem- 
bered that she had a sudden engagement and rose to 
go, and a strange smile played around the mouth of 
Mrs. Partington as her visitor sailed out of the door 
like a lin'e-of-battle ship. Ike watched her, and thought 
what fun it would be to see her go up. 



MRS. PARTINGTON ON SURPRISE PARTIES. 

" They 're all very well, surprise parties are," said 
Mrs. Partington, laying her knitting-work in her lap, 
and putting her specs up on the roof of her cap. 
" They 're aU very well where folks are prepared for 
'em ; where they have the sandwiches and cold ham all 
cut and dried, with the lemonade in the goblins, and the 
coffee in the tureen all ready to be turned out ; but 
where they come like an army, hungry as bears and 
hypothenuses, and ready to eat one up, with no pro- 



56 INDIVIDUALITiT. 

visions made or cooked for 'em, — heaven help ns ! it is 
trying. People may smile as much as they may, ana 
say they are dreadful glad to see 'em, and all that ; but 
my opinion is that they wouM be glad to see 'em a 
good way off, all the time. But when they carry things 
with 'em, as they do to ministers, and surprise 'em 
with donations of doughnuts and silver plates, that is a 
different matter. When our minister lost money in 
railroad shares, that cut him off short, his perish gin him 
a surprise party, and helped him along surprisingly. 
They are good when they 're managed like that.-' She 
stopped as a beam of reflected sunshine came into her 
eyes with blinding force, filling her with surprise, as the 
sun lay by the west ; but could she have seen the sly 
look which Ike bore, on the opposite corner, as he 
thrust a piece of looking-glass into his pocket, she would 
have no longer wondered. That boy was evidently a 
party to her surprise. 



INDIVIDUALITY. 

" I LOVE to stand at the street corners," said Dr. 
Spooner, as he was standing, with his cane behind him, 
on which he was leaning, looking up and down the 
street. " Did the fact never occur to you," continued he, 
" that every one of those persons moving before you was 
an individuality, an atomic component in the great ag- 
gregated humanity, and yet an isolation, a microcosmatic 
existence in a world of existences?" He looked at us a 
moment, as if expecting an answer. Overwhelmed by 
the profundity of the question, we remained sHent. 
" Yes," continued he, lifting himself up by his cane, 
" each individual is an individual world. All the love, 



MISAPPEEHENSION. 57 

hope, ambition, hatred, and devotion, revealed in the 
grand macrocosm before us — the world — is enacted in 
each little globe that moves by ns, — forming the micro- 
cosm — the individual. It is a grand study, sir. Man, 
abstractly considered, is a broad sweep of the human 
horizon with the glass of truth ; individually considered, 
the telescope is reversed, — revealing man infinitely 
less, but still the same. I have stood here, by the hour, 
reading the faces that have moved by me as the planets 
move round the sun, presenting varied phases, — one lit- 
tle world presenting the mirthful phase, another the sad, 
another the anxious, another the fierce, — -but how dis- 
tinct and beautiful the individuality ! At such times I 
think of the music of the lines describing the ' solemn 
silence ' with which the planets revolve, 

* Forever singing, as they shine, 
The hand that made us is divine.' 

These sing to me in their distinctness and silence, and " 
— A boy passing at the tune touched the Doctor's cane, 
and, it being just when he was drawing himself up to 
give emphasis to his sentence, he fell backward, with 
considerable violence. He smiled as he gathered him- 
self up. " Human weakness," said he, " may fall, but 
eternal truth must stand." 



MISAPPREHENSION. 

" Common taters ! " said Mrs. Partington to herself, as 
she waked out of a little nap in which she had been 
thrown by a soporific preacher. " What has com- 
mon taters to do with the Gospel?" The preacher 
had alluded to some commentators, the odd sound of 
which tickled her ear and wakened her. " Common ta- 



58 HOME MUSIC. 

ters !" she continued; '^ well, all sorts of taters are bad 
enough, and many of 'em are rotten clean through ; and 
if he is calling his hearers such names, heaven Iniows 
where he '11 stop. Common taters, indeed ! I '11 send 
him a peck of uncommon ones to-morrow, and show him 
that aU of 'em an't alike." She left the house with a 
very indefinite idea of what he meant, but determined 
to set him right on the potato question. 



HOME MUSIC. 



Music, in the concert-room, in the theatre, in the 
church, is very excellent. In loving oneness with it, 
the spirit is Hfted up and made better through its influ- 
ence. But it is at home that the influence of music 
exerts its greatest power, where from lips that we love 
<;ome the sounds of song in home strains, that fill the 
house with celestial harmonies. When the day's endeav- 
or is over, and the mind, harassed with care, seeks 
the relief of home ; then, when, in slippers, we dissolve 
connection with the world for a time, and shut it out 
with the closing shutters, and we longing pray for the 
nepenthe that shall lull us into forgetfulness, for a brief 
season at least, of perplexing and vexatious business, 
steals in upon us the voice of wife or child in some 
sonnet of domestic tenderness, and we melt to tears, as 
its mellifluous note trembles upon the sensitive ear like 
the song the angels sing. Blessed exorcist of blue de- 
mons is this domestic song. How they vanish in the 
clouds that leave the brow and the heart ! The room is 
redolent with the frankincense of cheerfulness thrown 
abroad from melodious censers by the invisible agen- 
cies, who surround us with constant surprises of good, 



HARVEST HYMN. 59 

and love to abide with us when we open our hearts to 
them. 

*' But. ■when the heart is full of din. 

And douTbt beside the portal waits. 
They can but listen at the gates. 
And hear the household jar within." 

Enchanting power of domestic song ! Greatest and 
best of instrumentahties ! The magnificence and stately 
grandeur of genius may sound on loftier strings, but in 
the littleness of song, the sweet wood-notes of home 
delight, the heart finds its truest solace, and asks for 
nothing more. 



HARVEST HYMN. 

God of the harvest ! unto Thee 
With grateful sense we bend the knee. 
While to thy throne our thanks arise. 
The full heart's earnest sacrifice. 

God of the Seasons ' God our trust ! 
Thy loving kindness from the dust 
Has quickened with a living birth 
The flower and fruitage of the earth. 

Thy care has sent the sun and rain 
To ope the bud and swell the grain ; 
Thy lavish hand has filled our store. 
Till with thy gifts it runneth o'er. 

0, may our hearts, dear Father, be 
A field devoted more to thee. 
Wherein may never dare intrude 
That poisonous weed — ingratitude ! 

The seasons, as they come and go. 
Thy constant love and goodness show ! 
0, may they, like the sun and showers, 
Call forth our souls' divinest powers ! 



60 MRS. PARTINGTON ON HORTICULTURE. 

MRS. PARTINGTON ON HORTICULTURE 

" So you take an interest in the science of tlie soil? " 
said the neighbor, leaning over the gate, as he saw Mrs. 
Partington with a bran-new garden-trowel, she had 
bought of Curtis, hovering over some plants that she 
was endeavoring to " set." She arose from the dust of 
the earth, as though so great a question should be 
answered perpendicularly, and, wiping her hands on her 
apron, said, smilingly as an open dandelion-blossom, 
" Some." — "You have many fine varieties, I see," con- 
tinued the neighbor ; "they display excellent taste." — 
" They smell better than they taste," replied she. 
"Some helly-o-tripes, over there, are very odious." — 
" Many fuchsias ? " asked the neighbor. — " Some con- 
fusion," replied she ; " but as soon as the borders are 
deranged I think it will be very ambiguous. I do love 
to see things growing ! I think that is the beauty of a 
garden, don't you?" The neighbor assured her that 
he thought very much as she did, and deemed a garden 
that had nothing growing in it mu.st be a very dreary 
place. " A perfect desert of Sarah," said the dame, 
breaking in like a sunbeam on a fog. — " Are your plants 
not too near together?" the neighbor asked. — " 0, 
no," she replied; " they are more sociable when they 
are near together, and there 's no room wasted. It is 
very pleasant to have grounds of one's own to culti- 
vate ; and, if the cats don't tear it up, my garden will 
bloom by and by like a Paradox." She struck the 
trowel in an upright position, like a note of admiration, 
as she concluded, and the neighbor went along. The 
cats trouble the old lady's gardening operations, though 
Ike has bought more than four quarts of torpedoes to 
throw out at them. 



A BIT OP NONSENSE. 61 



A BIT OF NONSENSE. 

The sun was briglitly sliming down. 

And there I saw him stand ; 
Upon his brow a darkling frown, 

A lantern in his hand. 
Anon he moved along the track. 

And every face did scan ; 
I thought the cynic had come back 

To find an honest man. 

*' Ha ! old Diogenes," cried I, 

'* This light your search bespeaks; 
But is it here as vain to try 

As 'mong the ancient Greeks ? 
Is honesty a thing as rare 

As when in Athens' street 
You first began your lamp to bear 

The precious gem to meet ? ' ' 

He turned about and grimly stood, 

And held his lamp to me ; 
I marvelled at his surly mood, 

Such impudence to see. 
Said he, " Old chap, you 've quite mistook,. 

I an't the one you s'pose ; 
I 'm he who has to overlook 

The gas-pipes when they 're froze. 

*' But this I '11 tell you while I can, 

That you may heed as true : 
Whene'er I want an honest man, 

I shall not trouble you." 
I marvelled more such words to get 

From that disgusting clown. 
And took my tables in a pet. 

And wrote the rascal down. 
6 



62 CHARACTER. — SELF-RESPECT. 

CHARACTER. 

How many gleams of character a man gives, without 
saying a word, by outward involuntary indications ' 
The vane does not show which way the wind blows 
with more certainty than do the little idosyncrasies of 
exterior habit denote the quality of the interior man. 
It was the remark of some one that a man of sense 
could not lay down his hat in coming into a room, or 
take it up in going out, without discovering himself by 
some peculiarity of the motion. You. may dress a 
boor up in purple and fine linen, but the boor will 
reveal itself So will the gentleman, even through 
rags. He need not speak to do this. The Lord 
Duberlys will declare by their acts the primitive shop- 
man, even though their tongues be tied by never so 
many conventional prescriptions. A gentleman moves 
invariably as to the manner born, which education may 
scarcely impart. He holds his title direct from the 
hand of Nature, and finds a living voucher for it in the 
educated character, which combines urbanity, dignity, 
good sense, and kindness, irrespective of dollar con- 
sciousness. 



SELF-RESPECT, 



Self-respect is an excellent thing, but, like many 
other excellent things, it is susceptible of being over- 
done. It sometimes takes the form of a disease, and 
runs to self-inflation, on the one hand ; or, if poor, to 
self-immolation on the altar of pride. People have 
starved to death rather than confess to being poor; 
and very often, if we could lift the veil from many 
homes, we should find bitter distress that friendship 



LOVE. 63 

and love would have been glad to relieve, had not 
pride shut friendship and love out of its confidence. 
Minds so affected call for pity. Beneath the exterior 
of cheerfulness, and prosperity, and hope, the darkest 
despair is lurking. The heart hardens in the aching of 
ever-present misery, and feeds on its silent bitterness. 
Such pride, were it rational, would be the height of 
wickedness and folly. Of what use are friendship and love 
unless they can be appealed to for sympathy and aid in 
the dark hour ! In them, if rightly regarded, al-e 
deposits which may be drawn upon, and will not be 
refused, when the trial comes. This is the case if we 
are true to the principles of friendship and love, and 
from a just appreciation make our deposit, so to speak, 
in the proper institution, as we would make a money 
deposit. The right to receive aid where the one ask 
ing it has ever been ready and willing to be drawn 
upon at sight, is no more a compromise of pride than 
would be the asking for one^s own that had been 
loaned. ' 



LOVE. 

Love is divine, — unselfish, asking naught. 

But winning it Tby the attractive force 
Of generous trust and sweet unfearing, fraught 

With the grace of tenderness to mark its course. 
Harshness and doubt cannot abide with love. 

Doubt is from selfishness, and that can ne'er 
Yoke with the sentiment that from above 

Was sent, which Scripture sayeth casts out fear. 
Love has no limit, — 'tis the God in man, 

Broad, universal, deep, and evermore 
The same, as when the stars their song began 

Of sweet accord, when Time creation bore. 
0, could we feel what Love is, passion free. 
Then God the good, indeed, with us would throned be ! 



64: feenchman's lane. 



FRENCHMAN'S LANE.* 

'T WAS a brave old spot, and deep was the sliade 
By the fast-locked boughs of the elm-trees made, 
Where the sun scarce looked with his fiery eye. 
As he coursed through the burning summer sky. 
Where breezes e'er fanned the heat-flushed cheek, — 
Old Frenchman's Lane, up by Islington Creek. 

Most lovely the spot, yet dark was the tale 

That made the red lips of boyhood pale. 

Of the Frenchman's doom, and the bitter strife. 

Of the blood-stained sward, and the gleaming knife, 

Of the gory rock set the wrong to speak. 

In Frenchman's Lane, up by Islington Creek. 

But the grass sprung green where the Frenchman fell. 
And the elder-blossoms were sweet as well. 
And the pears grew ripe on the branches high, 
And the bright birds sang in the elm-trees nigh. 
And the squirrels played at their hide and seek 
In Frenchman's Lane, up by Islington Creek. 

The blessed shade on the green sward lay. 
And quiet and peace reigned there all day ; 
The fledglings were safe in the tall elm tops. 
More safe than the pear-trees' luscious crops ; 
For the pears were sweet, and virtue weak. 
In Frenchman's Lane, up by Islington Creek. 

But at times when the night hung heavily there. 

And a spirit of mystery filled the air. 

When the whispering leaves faint murmur made. 

Like children at night when sore afraid. 

Came fancied sounds like a distant shriek 

In Frenchman's Lane, up by Islington Creek. 

And gleaming white at times was seen 
A figure, the gloomy trees between, 

» Frenchman's Lane was the scene of a fearful murder, where a sailor 
belonging to the French fleet that lay at Portsmouth, N. H., nearly a cen- 
tury ago, was found with his throat cut. Hence its name, and the mystery 
connected with it. 



feenchmak's lane. fi6 

And fancy gave it the Frenchman's shape. 
All ghastly and drear, -with ivounds agape ! 
But fancy played us many a freak 
7n Frenchman's Lane, up by Islington Creek : 

For lovers' vows those dark shades heard. 
Their sighs the slumbering night-air stirred. 
And the gleaming muslin's hue, I ween. 
Was the ghostly glimpse, the limbs between ! 
There was arm in arm and cheek by cheek 
Li Frenchman's Lane, up by Islington Creek. 

Ah, blissful days ! how fleet ye flew. 

Ere from life exhaled its morning dew. 

When children's voices sweet echoes woke. 

That often the brooding stUlness broke. 

As the meadow strawberry's bed they 'd seek. 

Through Frenchman's Lane, up by Islington Creek. 

Those days have long been distant days, 
Kecalled in memory's flickering rays. 
And the boys are men, with hearts grown cold 
In the world whose sun is a sun of gold. 
And their voice no more in music will speak 
In Frenchman's Lane, up by Islington Creek. 

And Frenchman's Lane has passed away : 
No more on its sward do the shadows play ; 
The pear-trees old from the scene have passed. 
And the blood-marked stone aside is cast. 
And the engine's whistle is heard to shi'iek 
In Frenchman's Lane, up by Islington Creek. 

But, true to ourselves, we shall ever retain 
A love for the green old Frenchman's Lane, 
And its romance, its terror, its birds and bloom. 
Its pears and the elderblow's perfume, — 
And a tear at times may moisten the cheek 
For Frenchman's Lane, np by Islington Creek. 
6* 



66 THE FIRST SUIT. 



THE FIRST SUIT. 

Not at law, good friends. — We mean the boy's first 
suit of clotlies, as lie emerges from the semi-fix of 
boyhood into the realization of frock-coat, vest, pants, 
and boots, and walks out among men, a man, in his own 
opinion. Indeed, it might not be safe for one to insinu- 
ate that he was any longer a boy ; and even parental 
rule is materially restricted, in view of the consequence 
assumed with the clothes. What an air of exaltation 
marks his steps as he moves along ! and he looks at 
everybody that passes as if expecting to hear some 
remarks about his improved appearance ; for, of course, 
he thinks they are all looking at him. He will not 
exactly cut his former acquaintances, who remain in 
jackets, but he will let them know their places. There 
is an impassable gulf of broadcloth now between them, 
and theirs is but a satinet condition, that can properly 
claim no sympathy with his. He looks at the young 
ladies now patronizingly, and has a half-idea of regret 
at the killing nature of his attractions, wondering which 
of the number he shall select as his particular flame. 
His habits change. He talks now in a differ ent key, 
and his childish treble is no longer discernible. He 
thrusts his hands into his pockets, and fingers his keys 
in a maturity of style that receives universal admira- 
tion. He speaks of his father as " the governor," of his 
mother as ^^the old lady,"' of his grown-up sisters as 
" the girls ; " and of his brothers, two or three years 
younger than himself, as " the smaU fry," telling Tommy, 
with considerable authority, to black his boots for him, 
and Mary Jane to adjust his neck-tie. He soon learns 
to say " us men " with the greatest freedom. Such are 
the first steps in progressive manhood, too often marred 



MORAL TENDENCY. 67 

by rowdyism in the secondary stages, where impudence 
is mistaken for smartness. 



MORAL TENDENCY. 

*' Where is your little boy tending ? " asked the good 
man, as he was inquiring of Mrs. Partington with 
regard to the procKvities of Ike, who had a hard name 
in the neighborhood. He meant the direction for good 
or ill that the boy was taking. " Well," said the old 
lady, " he is n't tending anywhere yet. I thought some 
of putting him into a wholesome store ,* but some says 
the ringtail is the most beneficious, though he is n't old 
enough yet to go into a store." — " T meant morally 
tending," said her visitor, solemnly, straightening him- 
self up like an axe-handle. — '^ Yes," said she, a little 
confusedly, as though she did n't fully understand, but 
did n't wish to insult him by saying she did n't ; " yes, 
I should hope he 'd tend morally, though there 's a 
great difference in shopkeepers, and the moral tender- 
ness in some seems a good deal less than in others, and 
in others a good deal more. A shopkeeper is one that 
you should put confidence into ; but I 've always 
noticed sometimes that the smilingest of them is the 
deceivingest. One told me, the other day, that a calico 
would wash like a piece of white ; and it did just like 
it, for all the color washed out of it." — " Good-morn- 
ing, ma'am," said her visitor, and stalked out, with a 
long string attached to his heel by a piece of gum that 
had somehow got upon the floor beneath his feet. 



68 SYMPATHY WITH RASCALS. 

SYMPATHY WITH RASCALS. 

Byeon says, " a fellow-feeling makes us wondrous 
kind," and we sometimes are half inclined to accept this 
as the reason for a latent and deep-seated sympathy we 
entertain for rascals. The confession causes us no 
shame, as we think, if there is one class of men more 
than another that needs sympathy, it is these. The priu' 
cipal reason for this is that they receive none. The 
rascal — the legitimately-recognized and found-out ras- 
cal — stands alone, comparatively. A woman or two, 
in the form of mother, wife, or sister, may cling to the 
rascal, and love him better that he is debased, and fol- 
low him to the scaffold, may be, but beyond this he is 
alone. Eascals have no sympathy with each other 
beyond a mere sense of mutual danger, and the master 
of them all leaves them in the lurch just as they most 
need his help. The antecedents of rascals are to be 
looked at, and herein is much cause for sympathy. 
They were, perhaps, born rascals by psychological en- 
tailment, and could n't help it any more than they could 
help being squint-eyed or club-footed ; or, perhaps, by 
wrong influences, — insidious and hard to be resisted, 
— the best qualities of their minds became perverted, 
and were led to run in the wrong channel. From the 
very earliest indications of his rascally proclivities, 
every hand is raised against the rascal, and society 
'^ puts into every honest hand a whip to lash the rascal 
naked through the world." The law is against him, and 
his life is literally fenced with constables' poles and 
policemen's batons. His only teacher is his fear, and 
his only preacher the criminal judge. Of course, this 
sympathy only extends to the detected rascals. There 
are many great rascals who never get found out. These 




•'Non enteniiez," sairl lie again, still smiling at her, and turning away at the eraak. 
•' Not in ten days," she luusel. P. 69. 



ORGANIC. 69 

only should be detested, — the devourers of widows' 
houses, the disturbers of the poor, the extortioners, the 
slanderers, — but not one spark of sympathy should be 
extended to them. It is to the wicked, hunted, be- 
nighted, fated, tempted, and fallen man that the sym- 
pathy belongs, who has such odds against him, — who, 
with Ishmaelitish instinct, has his hand raised against 
every other man, seeing in all his enemies. How far he 
is from happiness ! How much need he has of sym- 
•pathy ! We do not love the rascality the rascal com- 
mits, — that is ever to be deprecated, — and its hideous 
character is another call upon our sympathy for the 
rascal who is impelled by the insidious whisper of the 
devil to commit it, and to be committed for it. Yerily, 
the way of the transgressor is hard, and sympathy with 
him is called for in the same degree that his lot is hard. 



OUaANIC. 



"Will you please to play Apollyon crossing the 
Alps ? " said Mrs. Partington, reaching out of her cham 
ber window, as an organ-man was turning his crank 
with a persistent arm beneath. — " Non entendez," said 
he, looking up, and smiling at her. — " Can't you play it 
in less than ten days ? " replied she, in an elevated key. — 
" Non entendez," said he again, still smiling at her, and 
turning away at the crank. — " Not in ten days," she 
mused ; "I suppose he means it will take more than ten 
days to learn it so as to play it exceptionably." She 
gave Ike a five-cent piece to carry down to him. 



70 SCRATCHING FOR A LIVING. — ODORLESS ROSES. 

SCRATCHING FOR A LIVING. 

Mr. Nighthewind is a utilitarian. Eveiything around 
him has to scratch, as he expresses it. He had to 
scratch, he says, to get along, and he means that every- 
thing else shall, that he controls. Mr. Bounderby was 
not more exultant or boastful of his beginning than was 
Nighthewind of his scratching. A morning caller found 
Mr. N. out in the yard in his dressing-gown, busily 
engaged with his hens, chasing them from corner to 
corner, and acting by them in a very mysterious 
manner. " What are you doing ? " said his visitor, 
thinking him a little mad. — " Doing ? " said he ; " why, 
these hens " — shying a stick at a big rooster — " won't 
scratch, as I had to ; and I 'm determined they shall 
scratch for a living. They are so pampered with luxu- 
rious feed that they don't seem disposed to scratch. 
Shoo ! you rascals! why don't you scratch?" and Mr. 
Nighthewind went again into the energetic demonstra- 
tion ; but so obstinate are hens that they did n't seem 
' to profit by it. 

ODORLESS ROSES. 

A ROSE of rarest beauty met my view. 

Half in the verdant dewy foliage lying ; 
I strove to reach it, but too high it grew, 

^bid the fair flower escaped my earnest trying. 
At last, a ladder gained, I plucked the prize, 

And deemed myself well paid for toil expended ; 
Alas ! I found it only pleased the eyes, — 

No fragrant odor with its beauty blended ! 
And then this moral crossed my vision's disc : 

That there are human roses brightly blooming. 
For which men neck and peace together risk. 

But find, when gained, no gentle heart-perfuming, — 
No breathing sweets amid the flower they 've won. 
And feel the sense of being severely " done." 



THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 

CHAPTER I. 

The venerable Pritchard, for a thousand years, more 
or less, head of the firm of Pritchard, Smead, & Raikes, 
merchants, had finished his business on a pleasant 
Saturday evening, in the summer before the beginning 
of the present century, and retired to his old home- 
stead, which he had occupied for a great number of 
years, and which, like himself, was apparently strong 
and good for many years to come. He had lived so 
long in this house that it seemed as if he were a part of 
it, and was in complete sympathy with its brick and 
mortar components, though to all else it was a stupid 
old pile enough, — a ghostly and ghoulish thing, — that 
the timid heard strange sounds issue from, and hastened 
by with all celerity. It was brimful of odd closets 
and odd traps, the uses of which had outlived their 
generation ; and it was said that a secret communication 
existed inside, with underground passages, conducting 
to the garden behind the house, and that the house had, 
in its day, served as the head-quarters of an expert 
smuggler, who drove a lucrative business through the 
medium of the viaduct aforesaid ; though this was 
merely a supposition, as, when the old house was pulled 
down, to make way for a new block of granite stores, 
no trace of the secret passage was to be found. 

Mr. Pritchard entered his house, swinging the heavy 
oaken door to behind him, which awakened dull echoes 

(71) 



72 THE PRITCHARD HEIES. 

through the ancient fabric, hung his three-cornered hat 
on a peg in the entry, and deposited his cane in its 
accustomed corner. After which, he turned the brass 
knob of the old parlor-door, and entered, his feet 
making scarcely any sound upon the sand-strewn floor. 
He seated himself in his arm-chair, to which he had 
been long accustomed, and, laying back, seemed deep 
in thought. 

Mr. Pritchard had been what the world understands 
by the term, a good man. He had been as honest as 
circumstances would permit ; had never been detected 
in any flagrant violation of law or equity ; his word had 
long been law among the merchants of his day, and, at 
the close of a long mercantile career, marked by some 
shrewd speculations, including the purchase and sale of 
a large amount of continental money, he was said to be 
worth several hundred thousand dollars. He had not 
wasted his substance in riotous living, nor in extensive 
charities, though he gave freely at times to objects con- 
nected with public benefit; and when collections were 
taken in the church where he attended, the return of 
the contribution-box from over the door of the faded 
blue-lined wall-pew where he sat disclosed always a 
bill lovingly hovering over the heads of the coppers 
that lay at the bottom of it, the admiration of all who 
saw it. Some said he was pharisaical about this ; but 
we know there are envious and slanderous people in 
the world, and the very best of us are liable to 
feel the force of their malignant and depreciating 
remarks. With our statement of Mr. Pritchard's posi- 
tion and acts, we leave him in the hands of the reader. 
He has gone, long ago, with his faults and his virtues, 
and the opinion of men cannot affect him one way or 
the other. 



THE PRITCHAED HEIRS. 73 

He had been several years a widower, his wife having 
died in giving birth to his youngest child, who, at the 
time of which we write, was about twelve years old, a 
fair and sensitive boy, with a heart full of loving feeling 
for every one, but especially for his father, who was 
very dear to him, and who bestowed upon this, his 
youngest born, as much love as a man absorbed by 
business and the world can feel. The boy resembled 
his mother, and in the old man's tender moments the 
thoughts of her would stream down into his heart with 
a touching influence, and invest her child with new 
claims to his regard. 

It was in one of these moods that Mr. Pritchard made 
a will. He had drawn it up himself, and had it wit- 
nessed by two men of substance, one of whom had 
died, and had placed it away carefully, in a nook which 
he knew, where it was . to rest until called for, at his 
death. There was nothing unusual in this mode of 
proceeding; but those who witnessed his signature — 
those to whom he necessarily confided the secret of his 
making the instrument — had not the most remote idea 
of the character of its provisions, or who were to be 
benefited thereby. But the angel that prompted the 
will, and was looking over his shoulder when he wrote 
it, one dark night, saw the pleased smile that mantled 
his face as he recorded the name of his youngest son, 
Henry — named for himself 

The two other boys, James and Thomas, were of a dif- 
ferent character from the youngest. James, the oldest, 
possessed all his father's shrewdness and much of his own, 
and he early showed a disposition to pursue a course 
likely to make him a leading mind in the community. 
He was ambitious and persistent, and not too regardful 
of the rights of others ; a disposition that had revealed 
7 



74 THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 

itself in many acts of youthful littleness towards bis 
companions and playmates, which now, at twenty-one, 
gave him the reputation of being the sharpest young- 
man in town. He had been with his father since he 
had left school, and had become conversant with all the 
modes of making money then existing. His only affec- 
tion for any one was through their money, and his 
father formed no exception to the rule. The second 
boy was a dreamer, and exhibited no business procliv- 
ities : better content with a book and quiet, at sixteen, 
than with all that the mart could afford, obtained 
through strife and endeavor. 

The only one of his sons to whom Mr. Pritchard made 
any mention concerning a will was to his youngest, as 
he stood by his knee the morning after. 

'' How shall I name you in my will ? " said the old 
man to him, patting him upon his head. ^' Shall I leave 
you enough, so that when I die you will be rich, and 
never have to work any, and will have ^Dlenty of ser- 
vants, and coaches, and pretty things, as you Avish for 
them ? " 

The boy looked up in his father's face, and his eyes 
filled with tears, as he said he would rather work and 
forego all that had been named, so that his father might 
live ; and the old man let the will remain where he had 
placed it, and never referred to it again. 

We left him in his arm-chair, with the house hushed 
and still ; and he was sitting with his head ledd back, 
deeply thinking, perhaps, of past times, and perhaps, 
thinking of the future, towards which he was hastening. 
His two boys were at school, his eldest son at the store, 
and the housekeeper, who had filled that position for 
many years, was in her chamber, in a remote part of the 
old pile. Was Mr. Pritchard asleep, that he sat there 



THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 75 

SO still ? It was iinusiial for liim to sleep thus ; 
but the weather was warm, and the cool air blew in 
from the garden, freighted with the odor of flowers, 
and imparted somniferous influences. He slept well 
after the fatigues of the day, and his breathing was so 
gentle that the ear was pained by the effort to catch the 
tone of its rise and fall. His eyes were open, as if the 
outward senses were still awake, though his weary 
spirit was steeped in forgetfulness. Still he sat there 
in the venerable chair, saved from other generations, 
and moved not, though hour after hour crept by, and 
the stroke of the old clock on the stairs proclaimed 
the passing time. It was a waste of time for Mr. Pritch- 
ard to sit thus, when there were many papers to adjust 
before bed-time, and a letter upon the table, involving a 
sale of many goods, musfbe answered before the morn- 
ing mail. 

" Father ! " cried a joyful voice, breaking the silence, 
" Father ! '' 

Mr. Pxitchard moved not, though the voice was one 
that he loved to hear when awake. How soundly he 
slept, not to hear it ! 

" Father ! " and Henry Pritchard, awed by the 
silence, moved towards his father's chair, and placed his 
hand upon the arm that lay extended upon the velvet 
covering. A moment more, and his cries rang through 
the house, and " Father is dead ! " reverberated through 
the still rooms like a voice in a tomb. Mr. Pritchard 
slept the long sleep of death ! 

There was a great parade at the funeral. The bells 
were tolled, and the flags upon the shipping were 
hoisted at half-staff, and a long train of respectable 
mourners followed the remains to their last resting- 
place. A funeral sermon was preached upon the vir- 



76 THE PEITCHAED HEIRS. 

tues of the deceased, and the papers of the day were 
full of eulogies upon the great man fallen in Israel, and 
elegiac poets sang his j)raises in the most approved 
verse. His death pointed a moral for many discourses 
for a long time, and was used beneficially to illustrate 
the fact that the rich and the great must die as well as 
the poor ; and a superb monument was erected to his 
memory, bearing upon its tablet the inscription, ^^ An 
honest man 's the noblest work of God." Mr. Pritchard 
slept. 

CHAPTER n. 

" It was always a mystery to me what Pritchard did 
with that will," said a corpulent old gentleman, with 
very white hair and a very red face, to another old gentle- 
man, with whom he was conversing. " He made a will, 
I know, because I've got a memorandum of having 
witnessed it a year before he died. Let's see, that 
would make it more than thirty-five years ago. How 
time does fly away ! Pritchard was a very careful man, 
and that the will wasn't found seems very strange." 

" Perhaps he destroyed it," said the other old gentle- 
man. " Some folks don't like to think of dying, and after 
they have made their wills they destroy 'em. They 're 
kind o' superstitional like." 

^^ "Well, Pritchard was n't one of that sort. He 
knowed he 'd have to die 5 and he was a very careful 
man. I do wish it had been found. I guess that old 
est son of his would n't have fared so much better than 
the rest." 

" I guess not," said his shadow ; " and how he 's man- 
aged to get it all into his own hands, away from Thomas, 
who is worth forty of him as a man, is more than I can 
teU." 



THE PEITCHARD HEIRS. 77 

" Why, 't is the same old story/' says the red-faced 
man ; " Thomas must foohshly go to speculating, and 
ruin himself in that way; and then his Icind brother 
relieved him by paying half of what his share of the 
patrimony is worth. It's plain enough. Then his 
younger brother, that he had sent off in one of his ships, 
dies in the Indies, and he steps in for the whole of his 
share on a pretended will from Henry. He must be 
dead ; for he has n't been heard of for more 'n thirty 
years now." 

"Hush!" said the other; "here he comes in his 
coach, with his wife and daughters, as proud as pea- 
cocks." 

The coach rolled by them as he spoke, and James 
Pritchard bowed coldly to the old friends of his father, 
who returned it for the father's sake, but not for his 
own. 

" I han't got no patience with that feUow ! " says the 
one whom the red-faced man had been speaking to, 
striking his cane on the ground. " He was the last, I 
know, in his father's regard, and is now enjoying all his 
money. It '11 make the old man unhappy in his grave, 
if he knows anything about it." 

V " I guess he does n't care about it," said the red-faced 
man ; " where he 's gone our exchange is n't negotiable ; 
but sometimes, as I pass the old house, there, that 's 
been shut up so long, I almost expect to see the old 
man step out of the door. I wonder why James doesn't 
tear it down." 

" He dare not do it, it is thought," replied his com- 
panion ; " for they say that the housekeeper, before she 
died, hinted to him that when he puUed down the old 
house, he would fall with it. It has doubled in value 
since Pritchard died." 
7* 



78 THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 

'^ Good-by/' said the red-faced man. — " Good-by," re- 
sponded Ma friend ; and they separated, rattling the 
bricks with their canes as they moved away. 

It was at the close of the day on which the above 
conversation occurred that the family of James Pritch- 
ard were seated in his magnificent drawing-room, sup- 
plied with every luxury that wealth and art could pro- 
duce. The feet sunk in carpets wrought on foreign 
looms, luxurious couches wooed repose, heavy curtains 
gave a grandeur to the apartment, exquisite pictures 
graced the walls, costly candelabras glittered upon the 
marble mantelpieces, and large mirrors multiplied on 
every hand the splendors collected there. 

" James, who were those gross-looking people who 
bowed to us as we were riding, this afternoon?" said 
Mrs. Pritchard, as her husband sat, with a half-abstracted 
air, reading the paper. 

" Old Yarney and Slade," was his reply, somewhat 
abruptly, and a little harsh, " old friends of my father's." 

" Well, what claims have they upon your attention, 
if they were only 7iis friends ? I think their presumption 
in speaking to you unbearable. You should respect your 
daughters' feelings, Mr. Pritchard, if you have no regard 
for your wife's, and not encourage any such familiarity. 
Poor things ! " 

" One was such a horrid fat man ! " said the youngest 
daughter, raising her jewelled hands. 

" And the other was so terribly gaunt ! " said the 
elder, with a tone of horror. 

" Why, really, ladies," said Mr. Pritchard, with a 
chagrin that he vainly strove to conceal, " you treat my 
father's old friends with considerable freedom. They 
are very respectable citizens, and, besides, they are very 
necessary people to me — or those whose good-Avill 1 



THE PRITCHARD HEIES. 79 

would fain secure, though I half suspect, from their 
coldness, that I have n't got it." 

'^ Very well," said his wife ; " I suppose it will always 
be the case that a woman is to have no voice in deter- 
mining who her husband is to be intimate with, though 
she herself must be circumspect in her acquaintance. 
At any rate, the mother of your daughters will try to 
retrieve what their father loses." 

His brow contracted, and his heart prompted a bitter 
reply, — no unusual thing in that household, — when 
the door-bell rang, and Mr. Varney was announced. 
With a half-imprecation, he ordered the servant to admit 
him ; and, as the haughty wife and daughters swept in 
stately pride from the room, our fat old friend of the 
afternoon's conversation entered. 

Mr. Pritchard welcomed him with a shake of the hand, 
marked by assumed heartiness, and conducted him to a 
seat, at the same time taking his hat from his hand. 
But Mr. Yarney held to this most tenaciously, for he 
was a humble man, and it rather took him aback to wit- 
ness the splendors which he saw around him. 

'' Thank'ee — thank'ee ! " said the old man ; ^^ your 
father, Mr. Pritchard, was a very polite man — very. I 
never went into the old house in my life that he did n't 
order up the best his cellar had in it, to drink General 
Washington's health." 

Mr. Pritchard rang the bell. The servant appearing, 
he was ordered to bring a bottle of the best wine from 
the cellar, and glasses. 

" I did n't speak on that account," said Mr. Yarney ; 
" but it sounds so like your father ! and, as I Ve been 
walldng pretty brisk, I will try a thimble-full." 

The wine being brought, Mr. Yarney imbibed rather 



80 THE PRITCHAllD HEIRS. 

more than his stipulated amount, and; placing his glass 
upon the salver, he said, 

" I Ve come up, Mr. Pritchard, in this odd way, not 
exactly on my own account. You see, about an hour 
or so ago, I was sitting on the corner opposite, where 
your father's old house is standing, when a stranger 
came along, who stopped and looked at the old build- 
ing, and asked me who it belonged to. He seemed 
mightily taken with it, and went over and tried the door, 
as if he wanted to go in. I told him who it belonged 
to now, and who used to own it. — Lord bless your 
father ! I can see him just as plain as if it were 
yesterday ! " 

Mr. Pritchard looked over his shoulder, with a trou- 
bled expression, as if he expected to see some sight 
which he did n't want to, and said, 

" Well, Mr. Yarney, this man ? " 

" So I told him," continued Mr. Yarney, who was 
warmed up by his wine, " all that I knew about the 
family, and about your father's making a will, and about 
my witnessing it, and about how it never was found, 
and much of the same sort, when he asked me if I did n't 
think you would sell the old house. I told him he had 
better come over here and inquire ; but he asked me to 
come, as I was somewhat acquainted with the family ; 
and so I 've come." 

" Yery well, Mr. Yarney, you have done your errand 
very handsomely," said Mr. Pritchard. " You may tell 
the one who sent you that the old place is not to be 
sold ; and I may as well say to yourself that a repe- 
tition of your visit on the same errand would be very 
disagreeable to me." 

The old man had poured some wine from the bottle, 
preparatory to taking another " thimble-full ; " but, as 



THE PKITCHAED HEIRS. 81 

Mr. Pritcliard finished speaking, lie placed it upon the 
salver untasted, and, taking his hat, turned to go. He 
was politely bowed to the door, and left the house with 
a figurative brushing of the dust from his feet as he 
departed. 

"I couldn't have drank it; it would have choked 
me," said he, the thought of the sparkling fluid danc- 
ing through his mind, as if to tempt him into a regret 
for his self-denial. 

Soon after his departure, the house of James Pritch- 
ard was illuminated with a blaze of light, and merry 
sounds of music and the laughter of glad voices came 
from the open windows. It was a reception night, and 
fashionable forms moved here and there amid the splen- 
dors revealed without. Poor people went by on the 
other side, and looked up wistfully ; but there was no 
atmosphere there, they Imew, wherein the virtue of 
charity could grow, and they passed on. 

A different scene was enacting, at the same moment, 
in an obscure part of the town, at the home of the other 
of the Pritchard heirs. 

Thomas Pritchard sat in his little parlor alone. He 
was a man apparently fifty years old, and his iron-gray 
hair denoted that care had not passed over him lightly. 
There was a gentle expression upon his face, and an 
eye indicative of great kindness ; but there prevailed 
at the same time an expression of indecision and of 
shrinking back in his manner, as if from extreme sensi- 
tiveness. His bearing was that of the gentleman, and 
his kind voice had a sympathetic and loving tone that 
bespoke a heart attuned to rightful feelings. He was a 
fine-looking man, intellectually, and his countenance 
altogether was prepossessing in the extreme. Such 
was Thomas Pritchard. His home exhibited none of 



82 THE PEITCHARD HEIRS. 

the extravagance of wealth, as seen at his brother's ; 
hut, though humble, an air of neatness prevailed or 
every side, and competency was evident throughout. 
A neat and somewhat extensive librar}^ occupied one 
side of the small parlor, a piano found a place upon 
the other side, some beautiful pictures in water-colors 
graced the wall, and a portrait of old Mr. Pritchard 
smiled down from above the mantelpiece. A fine taste 
was perceptible in the arrangement of a vase of flowers 
upon the table, and a stranger might guess that the 
hand of woman had given the touch that lent such an 
air of neat cheerfulness to the scene. Mr. Pritchard 
had been a widower for several years. He had had a 
number of children, but they had died, one by one, and 
none remained of his family but one young boy, and an 
adopted daughter, whose education he had mainly at- 
tended to himself Her works graced the walls, and 
her fingers could awaken sweet tones from the in- 
strument which held its place in the room. He had 
adopted her at a time when, involved in troubles, he 
had scarce a hope of being able to give her a support ; 
and it was a source of joy to him, ever after, that he 
had done so. He had cultivated her mind himself, and 
trained it«dn a manner to repay him ten-fold for the care 
bestowed ; and now that his days were weary with the 
thoughts of those he had lost, her voice broke through 
the gloom to cheer him, and her hand ministered to his 
comfort, as though hers was the reflected love of that 
which had fled, returned from the brighter sphere to 
soften the sorrow of this. 

As we have said, he sat alone. The shadows had fallen 
gradually around him, and he was scarcely sensible of 
the darkness, when the door opened, and a beautiful 
girl entered, clothed in white, and bearing a light. The 



THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 83 

sudden glare startled him, and he shaded his eyes with 
his hand. 

*^ Madeline," he said, " this gloom is more in keeping 
with my present feelings than the light. Carry it away, 
my dear child, and come to me." 

She obeyed him, and, returning to where he sat, threw 
her arms around his neck and kissed him, with all of 
a daughter's tenderness. Laying her head upon his 
breast, she looked up into his face as though earnestly 
endeavoring to pierce the gloom resting there, and 
devise some means for its banishment. 

'' Father," said she, in a sweet voice, sinking to her 
knee by his side, " shall I sing for you ? My voice, you 
Ray, soothes you when your spirit is troubled." 

'^ No, my child," replied he, placing his hand tenderly 
upon her head ; " this is a time when I would not have 
my thoughts interrupted, even though they are very 
sorrowful ones. Your voice is very sweet to me, my 
child, always. This is the anniversary of my father's 
death, and the thought comes to me of the strange fate 
that has attended his sons — that — " 

He ceased ; and the whole tide of feeling for the 
wrong done him by his brother, and his own humble 
condition, rushed through his mind, but found no ex- 
pression. He would not wound the gentle ears in- 
clined towards him with the bitterness swelling up in 
his own heart, and he pursued the theme no further. 

"This home is too poor for you, my sweet girl," 
said he, kissing her forehead. " A refinement that 
would grace a palace should not be hid in obscurity 
like this." 

" Dear father," cried she, starting to her feet, " you, 
who have given me this refinement, Imow that its first 
desire is to minister to your pleasure. What other com- 



84 THE PRITCHAED HEIRS. 

panions do I want than yourself and my dear brother, 
and the circle that I call friends ? What more of grati 
fication do I want than my music and my painting ? I 
desire nothing, but to make you happy." 

The fond girl threw herself into his arms as she spoke, 
and the father and daughter momentarily forgot their 
sorrows in a loving embrace. They were disturbed by 
a voice at their side, which called out, 

" Hallo ! what courting ^s going on here ? Who 's 
this ? You, Pritchard ? Ah, yes, and here 's my little 
pet. Miss Madeline. Bless you, my darling ! That 's 
right, love your father.'' 

This was all spoken in the hearty tones of our old fat 
friend Yarney, who caught Madeline, as she extricated 
herself from her father's arms, into his own, and kissed 
her voluminously before she escaped from the room, — 
vanishing like a spirit through an opposite door. 

Mr. Yarney chuckled as she disappeared, and then, 
with a renewal of his hearty tone, said, 

" Mr. Pritchard, I ask your pardon, but I Ve brought 
a gentleman here, who wants to make some inquiries 
about the old estate yonder, — if you know anything 
about its being sold — if it 's ever going to be." 

" We will have a light," said Mr. Pritchard, rising. 

" No," said another voice beside Mr. Yarney's, " no 
light is necessary. I merely wished to make inquiry con- 
cerning the property, as I am pleased with its situation, 
and would like to purchase it for building purposes." 

" I have no longer any interest in it," said Mr. Pritch- 
ard, with strong emotion ; " my hrother has got it all 
now (there was a strong emphasis on the word broth- 
er), and he will not sell. He believes the downfall of 
his fortune depends upon that of the old house, and he 
dare not do it." 



THE rRITCHARD HEIRS. 85 

*' Has he no other brother ? " asked the stranger. 

" No/' replied Mr. Pritchard ; " he never had but 
one, beside myself — a little brother, who died abroad. 
He was too good, and too frail, for a hard world like 
this.'' 

" Well, sir," said the stranger, " having ascertained 
concerning the property, I will now take my leave. 
Good-night, sir." 

He passed out as he spoke, but Mr. Yarney remained 
behind a moment, just to say that the stranger seemed 
as rich as a Jew, and that he did n't, for the life of him, 
know who he was. 

CHAPTER in. 

Toward the close of the day after the one we 
have described, a pedestrian, dusty and weary, walked 
up the broad street that led by the stately mansion of 
the oldest of the Pritchard heirs. He appeared to be 
upwards of forty years of age, stooped in his gate like 
one prematurely old, and was evidently a stranger, for 
he gazed at the lofty dwelling of James Pritchard long 
and earnestly, as if admiring the beauty of its archi- 
tecture. 

" Whose residence is this ? " he asked of one who 
was passing at that time. 

" Pritchard's," was the reply. 

" Pritchard's ? " reechoed the stranger ; " the name is 
not familiar to me. Is he a native of this place ? " 

" Yes," said the man, " he is one of the sons of old 
Pritchard, the merchant, that died here many years ago, 
and he has contrived to get all the old man's property 
into his hands. Got a brother over here, humble 
enough." And he passed on. 

The stranger stood looking at the house, when a gay 



8 b THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 

party came tripping clown the steps, consisting of the 
two daughters of James Pritchard, and a young and 
fashionably-dressed man, whose Kkeness to the sisters 
was sufficient evidence of his relationship. It was their 
brother, a petted and only son, the heir to the name 
and fortune of James Pritchard. As they passed the 
stranger, the youngest of the sisters whispered to her 
brother, 

" 0, Richard, what a horrid-looking creature ! What 
can he be staring at our house for ? " 

" I can't say," replied the young man. — " Look here, 
old fellow," said he, addressing the stranger, " what 
concern have you about the house, yonder, that you 
stare at it so? Do you think of a midnight visit to it, 
and a robbery of plate ? The young ladies don't like 
your looks, and you had better move on." 

" Don't be so severe, Richard," said the young lady ; 
'^ he may come and murder us in our beds." 

The stranger made no reply, but looked upon the 
party with a strong glance of contempt as they moved 
away, and then mounted the steps that led to the ele- 
gant mansion. He rang the bell with a feeble pull, 
which was speedily answered by a servant in livery, 
who stared upon him with a supercilious expression, 
and then demended why he had not gone round to the 
back door. 

" Because I want to see your master," said the 
stranger, with a weak voice. 

" Well," replied the domestic, " go round to the back 
door, and I will call him." 

The stranger walked slowly round the house, looking 
up at the windows, as he went along the gravelled 
walks, that made his weary steps more slow and pain- 
ful. Reaching the door designated, he sat down upon 



THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 87 

the step to await the approacli of tlie proprietor of the 
mansion. At last the servant appeared, and requested 
the stranger to walk into the library. Mr. James 
Pritchard was sitting at his table writing, as the man 
entered. 

" Is this Mr. Pritchard ? " he asked. 

" It is," was the reply. 

^' You had a brother Henry, sir ? " continued the 
stranger. 

'' I had,'' replied Mr. Pritchard, with a sudden flush 
upon his face. " Why do you ask ? " 

'' Because, sir, I knew your brother in India, and was 
with him in his last moments. He enjoined a promise 
upon me, if ever I came to his native place, to call upon 
his brothers, assuring me of a warm welcome. It is 
many years ago, but I have not forgotten the promise. 
Fortune has gone rather hard with me since, and I am 
induced to ask your aid for my old friend's sake." 

"Indeed, my brother's friend, you have a strong 
memory; to retain the matter so long." 

" I never can forget him ; he was so generous. I 
remember that he left his share of his father's patrimony 
to your brother." 

" There your memory fails you," said Mr. Pritchard, 
with irony in his tone, rising at the same time, and 
going to his secretary. " This, perhaps, may refresh 
your memory," unfolding a paper, " if you are the one 
you represent yourself to be. The property is willed 
to me." 

And there, in unmistakable tracery, was the name of 
James Pritchard as the legatee of Henry Pritchard. 
The stranger grew pale with emotion as he looked upon 
the paper, while the legatee watched his face with sharp 



88 THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 

inspection. Resuming his composurej he said, with a 
sigh, 

" True, true, time plays sad freaks with our memory ; 
but is the other brother of my friend — is your brother 
ahve ? " 

" Yes, he lives," said Mr. Pritchard, with embarrass- 
ment ; " but an estrangement has grown up between us. 
Family difficulties have led to non-intercourse, and we 
rarely meet. But our conversation is growing irksome, 
and, as I have pressing business, you will please excuse 
me if I bid you good-evening. Take this for your 
needs, and, as a reminder of painful things is what I 
cannot bear, owing to a too sensitive nature, I beg you 
will not call again." 

He placed a five-dollar bill in his visitor's hand, 
and, calling a servant, directed him to show the stranger 
to the door. The bill was quietly laid upon the corner 
of the table, and an expression of pain was visible 
upon the man's face as he left the door of the inhos- 
pitable mansion. On leaving the house, he strolled 
pensively along, apparently unheeding as to where 
he was walking, when he entered the street where 
the old Pritchard house stood in its decay, with 
its low-browed windows, its heavy cornices, and its 
immense stacks of chimneys. The stranger paused a 
moment to look at it, and moved away in deep thought. 
He turned a corner at the end of the street, and, in a 
moment more, was at the house of Thomas Pritchard. 
Knocking at the door, it was opened to him by the 
charming Madeline, who ushered him into the parlor, as 
he expressed the wish to see Mr. Pritchard, who was 
not in, but was momently expected. The stranger's 
humble and weary appearance won her sympathy, and 
her kind voice bade him be seated till her father's 



THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 89 

return. She arranged for him the softest seat, and 
showed such a sohcitude to please him that he was 
profuse in thanks for her kindness. At length Mr. 
Pritchard returned, and was informed that the stranger 
awaited him. Entering the parlor, he courteously 
saluted him, when, rising to his feet, the stranger stood 
in the broad light that broke in a flood from the west, 
and held out his hand. Mr. Pritchard took it, and, look- 
ing full in his face, with a disturbed air, asked him who 
he was. 

" Thomas Pritchard, don't you know me ? " was the 
reply. 

The voice was a voice from the dead, — the voice 
broke the gloom that hung over a remembrance of 
thirty years, — the voice was a renewal of fraternal joy 
in his breast, — and, with a cry of " Henry, my brother ! " 
he held the stranger to his heart. 

The sound had attracted the fair Madeline and her 
brother Henry into the room, who were made partakers 
in the joy of the reunion. The mystery was explained. 
He had been very ill in India, and, in the belief that he 
was about to die, had made a will bequeathing his por- 
tion of his father's estate to his brother Thomas, whose 
name, as he had just seen, had been erased, and that of his 
elder brother substituted. The vessel to which he was 
attached had sailed, leaving him, as it was supposed, to 
die. Reviving soon afterwards, a rich native of the 
country, attracted by his friendless condition, had taken 
him to his own home, where he had been cared for with 
the greatest tenderness, and his life saved by the most 
unremitting attention. He at last so ingratiated him- 
self that the old man adopted him as his son, he taking 
the name of his new father. His remembrance of home, 
at first vivid and mingled with regretful feehngs at 
8* 



90 THE PEITCHARD HEIRS. 

leaving the spot lie loved so well, became dimmed by 
the lengthening absence. Communication between the 
portion of the country where he was and hi» own land 
was rare, and at last indifference gained complete mas- 
tery over him, and he had devoted his energies to 
business. He had married young. His wife and family 
were living, and had come with him to the adjoining 
town, where he had stopped on account of cheapness 
of accommodation ; for " you must judge, my brother," 
said he, pointing with a melancholy smile to his faded 
garments, " that I am not quite equal to our aristocratic 
brother, with whom I had an interview this morning.'' 

His kind brother assured him that he was most wel- 
come to such as he had, and asked a description of that 
interview, which was given him. Thomas Pritchard 
heard it with a downcast face, and when he raised it 
there was a cloud upon it; but no word escaped him of 
censure for one who had done him such wrong. 

" And now that I have come to life again," said 
Henry Pritchard, in a lively tone, " I shall be the ex- 
ecutor of my own will, and adjust the slight mistake of a 
name that has somehow occurred." 

" Not for the world," said his brother ; " let him have 
it all, as he has got all the rest. I wish not to contend 
with him for it." 

" Well, then, for the present let it remain as it is," 
said Henry ; " and for the present let me remain the 
stranger that I was an hour since, for a purpose of my 
own. I will be your guest for a day or two." 

Madeline busied herself in preparing the evening 
meal, and the Pritchard heirs spent a long hour at the 
board, talking of old times and scenes, and the thou- 
sand things that come up to interest those who have 
been long separated. 



THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 91 

" And now, Thomas," said Henry Pritchard, " I want 
to get permission to visit the old house again. There 
is a strange feeling in my mind with regard to it. I am 
not superstitious ; but, if ever a man was visited by a 
denizen of the other world, our father has paid me a 
visit. He came in a dream, and I thought he revealed 
the old room to me where he died. Doing so, he 
seemed to point to a closet which I do not remember to 
have existed, but without a word of explanation he dis- 
appeared. Three times the vision appeared to me, and 
there was a troubled appearance upon the face that dis- 
turbed me. It revived the interest in my home, and 
the new desire that brought me here. How is this 
entrance to be gained ? " 

" Our neighbor, Mr. Yarney, will get permission for 
me," said his brother, " and you can accompany me." 

Mr. Yarney was sent for, and our old fat friend came 
soon after, waddling into the room. He started as he 
saw the stranger with Mr. Pritchard, who placed his 
fingers on his lips in token of silence. The desire to 
visit the old house was stated, and Mr. Yarney under- 
took to procure the necessary leave in the name of 
Thomas Pritchard. This he succeeded in doing the 
next morning, and the three proceeded together to the 
old pile, that had been deserted for many years. 

The massive oaken door grated harshly on its hinges 
as the brothers entered, and their footfalls and sub- 
dued voices wakened strange echoes through the 
rooms. It was with deep emotion they entered the 
room where their father had died. Several articles yet 
remained of what then filled it, and for a short time the 
main object of visiting the place was forgotten in the 
tender reminiscences of the past that were awakened. 
An exclamation from Henry Pritchard at last attracted 



92 THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 

attention, and, pointing to a panel in the wainscot, he 
said, in a whisper, 

" The very spot the ghost revealed to me ! " 

An examination showed that the panel was a secret 
door, secured to the floor by small hinges, and at the 
top by a spring, which was hid in the deep moulding. 
The rust of years prevented an immediate removal of 
the panel, but after some little exertion it was done,, 
when a large amount of old papers Avas found, and in- 
a case by itself a paper, labelled " The Last Will axd 
Testament of Henry Pritchard." 

As the paper was unrolled, the eye of Mr. Yarney 
fell upon the names of those who had witnessed the 
will, and he shouted out, in a tone that made the old 
house ring again, 

'' Found, at last ! — found, at last ! I told 'em there was 
a will. Found, at last ! ' Witness, Simon Yarney,' as 
plain as your hand." 

The will was written in a clear and distinct manner, 
and the tenor of it was, that the eldest son, James, hav- 
ing been fitted for business, should enjoy his jDosition in 
the firm of Pritchard, Smead, & Raikes, and that the 
property should be equally divided between the broth- 
ers, Thomas and Henry Pritchard. The instrument 
abounded with kind expressions for his children. It 
was thought advisable to return the papers to their 
hiding-place, and the panel was restored as before. No 
sooner was this done than the door opened, and James 
Pritchard entered. His brow was dark as night, and 
the expression of his face cruelly forbidding, as he 
looked upon the assembled group in the little low 
parlor. He took no notice of his brother Thomas, but, 
turning to the stranger, whom he recognized as his . 



Ill 



THE PRITCHAED HEIRS. 93 

visitor of the day previous, he demanded, in an imperi- 
ous tone, 

" By what right, sir, do you enter here without my 
permission ? " 

" By permission of Mr. Pritchard, sir," was the 
stranger's reply, in a humble tone. 

"And by what right has he permitted you?" cried 
tbe imperious man, with increasing violence. 

" By my right as one of my father's heirs," said 
Thomas Pritchard, in a voice firm and distinct, as though 
the occasion had given him new powers. 

" Then leave, all of you," said he ; " for the house is 
mine." 

" James Pritchard," said Thomas, with a firmness 
of tone that was unusual, " you are yourself an intruder 
here, and remain but by our sufferance. Our father 
made a will, deeding his property to myself and our 
youngest brother. That brother lives." 

James Pritchard laughed scornfully, and his laugh 
sounded fearfully in the old house. 

" It is too late a day," said he, " for such an assertion, 
and assertion is not proof." 

He stamped his foot as he spoke, and the panel, but 
feebly secured, fell with a loud sound at his feet, reveal- 
ing the secret closet. 

" Our father speaks to you, James Pritchard, from the 
tomb," said Thomas Pritchard, holding the will towards 
him, " and aflSrms my truth ; and here, by your side, is 
one from the grave to claim his right. It is our 
brother Henry." 

The color fled from the haughty man's cheeks, as 
though a ghost had, indeed, risen and was standing 
before him. He clutched at the air, as if to seize some- 
thing with which to support himself, and gazed upon 



94 THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 

the stranger with an eye in which hatred and fear 
seemed combined. 

" I deny his identity ! " at length he found voice to 
say. " I deny his identity, — he is an impostor ! I have 
twenty witnesses of my brother's death. Your credu- 
lity has been deceived. The will is a fabrication." 

^^ I was one of the witnesses, myself/' said Mr. Yar- 
ney, as though this were the greatest event in his life ; 
'' no cheat, sir ! See there, ^ Witness, Simon Yarney.' " 

James Pritchard left the house, saying, as he left, 

" I deny the will, and deny the scheme trumped up 
by a fool and an impostor to deprive me of my right." 

The younger brothers held a brief conference as 
to what course to pursue. To establish their claim 
would require money, of which they had apparently 
none at command, while the one who was to contest it 
with them had abundant means. In this strait they 
appealed to Mr. Yarney, who, after revolving the 
matter for some time, gave it as his opinion that the 
one who had proposed to buy the property the day or 
two before would advance money to aid their cause, 
through hope of obtaining it. He said this with a sig- 
nificant glance at Henry Pritchard, who nodded in 
reply ; and Mr. Yarney was left to consult with the 
stranger, when he should see him. The next morning 
Mr. Yarney informed the brothers that the stranger 
would advance them money to any amount, through 
him, though desirous of remaining unknown in the 
matter. This seemed to remove one difficulty from 
the path, and, having retained eminent counsel, the 
cause was submitted entirely to his hands. The town 
became interested in the affair, and public opinion 
divided upon the question, a large party siding with 
James Pritchard ; but the will was too well authenti- 



THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 95 

cated to admit of doubt, although the second brother 
had long since sold his right in the property uncon- 
ditionally to the elder, which shut him out from his 
interest in the will, and the denial of the identity of the 
younger seemed hard to prove, which rendered the case 
apparently a safe one for the possessor of the property. 
But there were those engaged in the cause, backed by 
the wealth which came from the invisible friend of the 
Pritchard heirs, who met the fierce contestant of their 
father's will with a powerful force. Evidence was intro- 
duced to prove the death of the young Pritchard in India, 
— the one who had brought the will, — and the prob- 
ability of his decease argued from after circumstances. 
On the other side, the cause was left to the evidence of 
personal resemblance to the deceased, attested by old 
people who remembered the elder Pritchard, and by the 
memory of his brother Thomas. After great difficulty, 
and the occupancy of months of time, the case was 
decided in favor of the Pritchard heirs. This decision 
was made at the close of a fine day, and Thomas Pritch- 
ard, sad at his success, went home with a clouded brow 
and a weary heart. Henry Pritchard had gone to 
inform his family of the result. 

Since his return he had acted very mysteriously with 
regard to his family. To the repeated invitations to 
bring them to his brother's house, he had invariably 
replied that they were very well where they were, and 
from his evasion it had appeared that he was desirous 
they should remain in present obscurity. 

Thomas Pritchard was received by his children witli 
affectionate regard, and they learned from his lips the 
intelligence of his success. He sat down in his arm- 
chair, and leaned his head upon his hand, with the air of 
a man who had been defeated. A knock at the door 



96 THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 

aroused liim, and in a moment more James Pritchard 
stood before him. His surprise was great. Neither 
spoke for a minute ; at last, motioning to a chair, 
Thomas Pritchard asked his visitor to be seated. 

" Not," said he, in a manner far different from that 
which he usually employed, " till I am assured, by my 
brother's forgiveness of unbrotherly wrong, that I am 
welcome. Thomas, we have long been estranged. I 
have deeply wronged you ; and during this vexed trial 
I have thought of that wrong. My father's spirit has 
struggled with me, and my stubborn heart has yielded. 
I had, before the decision, resolved to make reparation, 
and have now come to express that determination, and 
to beg your forgiveness, and that of my disowned 
younger brother." 

Thomas Pritchard had risen to his feet as his brother 
was speaking, and before he had concluded he had 
grasped the hand held towards him, and pressed it to 
his heart with a fervent embrace. 

" And you have my most hearty forgiveness, James," 
he cried, shaking the hand warmly. '^ This moment is 
worth more to me than all the wealth of India. I have 
never been estranged from you ; my feelings have been 
true to you, with a conviction that you would some day 
come back to brotherly allegiance. James, you are 
welcome. I wish Henry were here to share my joy." 

The door opened as he spoke, and Henry Pritchard 
entered, accompanied by Mr.- Yarney, whose delight in 
the success of the heirs Avas great, in the importance 
that the witnessing of the will had given him. A blank 
expression fell on his jolly features, as he saw in whose | 
presence he stood, while Henry Pritchard, with no j 
further notice than a glance, passed to the other side of 
the room. James Pritchard left the spot where he was 



THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 97 

standing, and crossed over gently to where his younger 
brother was gazing upon the picture of his father upon 
the wall. 

^^ Henry Pritchard," he said, laying his finger upon 
his brother's shoulder, " your elder brother asks your 
forgiveness. He disowned you from a mistaken belief, 
and is willing to repair, as far as possible, the injury he 
has done, by restoring, without further contest, the 
property he has held so long, — unjustly, dishonestly 
held." 

Henry Pritchard turned and looked upon his brother's 
face. Its expression assured him, and, seizing his 
hand, he shook it warmly. It was enough. The Pritch- 
ard brothers were at peace ! 

Mr. Yarney coughed and fidgeted to attract attention ; 
at last, when wearied with trying, he spoke, — 

" I 've come for you to go with me and see the bene- 
factor who has befriended you, in his own house. He ^s 
sent his coach for you." 

The heirs at once obeyed the summons, and invited 
their elder brother to accompany them, which he as- 
sented to, and, getting into the coach together, they 
drove away. Through the main street of the town they 
passed, towards the suburbs, and, after riding about 
ten miles, they arrived at a splendid mansion-house, 
embowered in trees, and everything about it denoting 
affluence and taste. The coach stopped, and the party 
alighted. They were met at the door by a lady of 
about forty years of age, in whose complexion the 
effect of an ardent sun was visible, who, in elegant 
terms, bade them welcome, ushering them into a parlor, 
richly but neatly furnished. She told them her hus- 
band. General de Main, would welcome them presently. 
In a few moments the door opened, and Henry Pritch- 

9 



98 THE PEITCHARD HEIRH. 

ard stood before them, and was introduced to the 
astounded brothers as '^ General de Main/' the pro* 
prietor of the mansion in which they then were. They 
had not missed him from their side, and the surprise 
was complete. He smiled at the puzzled expression 
they wore, while Mr. Yarney chuckled and rubbed his 
hands gleefully, as if the matter was nothing new to 
him, and he was aching to tell all he knew about it. 

" I am here," said their host, " in four capacities : as 
the East Indian General de Main, Henry Pritchard, the 
unknown benefactor of the Pritchard heirs, and your 
host, — in all of which I shall endeavor to do my duty; 
and this, my sweet wife, shall make up for my deficien- 
cies." He touched a bell, and folding doors unclosing, 
disclosed a rich banquet, spread for a large party ; and 
there assembled were the family of their host, — the 
oldest, a young man of about twenty-two, and four 
young ladies, of ages varying from sixteen to six years, 
— as beautiful as their mother, and as vivacious as they 
were beautiful. And there, among them all, to the 
astonishment of Thomas Pritchard, were the sweet Mad- 
eline and his son Henry, who, through the good Mr. 
Yarney, had been brought there before them, he 
having transformed himself into an ancient Ariel to 
bring about results on which his heart was set. He 
looked upon the scene with tears in his eyes, and his 
great sides shook at the fun of the thing. 

The party welcomed the guests, and James Pritch- 
ard, though his heart smote him for what he had done, 
experienced a pleasure he had not known for years, — 
the first return for sincere repentance. He was cor- 
dially welcomed by his brother, and every attention 
shown him that could make him at ease ; and Thomas 



THE PRITCHARD HEIRS. 99 

Pritchard, in his new-found joy, made all happy by the 
magnetism of his presence. 

"And how could you so hide yourself from us?" 
asked Thomas of his brother Henry. 

" Through the aid of my father's old friend, Yarney, 
whom I remembered. I sought him, and through 
him learned all of our family affairs, and proposed the 
purchase of the old house. Then I visited you in the 
dark, the night before I disclosed myself to you ; and 
the idea suddenly occurred to me to preserve my incog- 
nito. My friend Yarney assisted me in it all, and 
through his aid, in spending my money, I am located 
here, where I shall remain for a season." 

Mr. Yarney smiled blandly with new importance, 
and smoothed the napkin upon his lap with nervous 
delight. 

The party sat long, and separated with the promise 
of renewed affection, which promise was fully redeemed. 
The Pritchard estate was settled ; liow, the world knew 
not, and, Mr. Yarney, who Imew all about it, wouldn't 
tell ; but things remained relatively with the brothers 
as before, with the exception that Thomas Pritchard's 
house was enlarged, and more beautiful pictures graced 
the walls, and more books swelled the library, in Avhich 
he took delight ; and neater and more roomy grounds 
appeared about the house, in which the fair face of 
Madeline was often seen of mornings in the summer 
time, bending over the blossoms less bright than the 
glow upon her cheek. And the blush was brighter 
when young Frank de Main pressed her hand and whis- 
pered into her ear tender words, not unwillingly 
heard. The families mingled, although the haughty 
wife and daughters of James Pritchard reluctantly con- 



100 THE PEITCHAED HEIES. 

sented to associate with those they had despised ; but 
the General and his wealth reconciled all difficulties, 
and even the humble Thomas, reflecting the ghtter, 
became a visitable brother. It was a moment of morti- 
fication when the daughters and son discovered in their 
India uncle the one they had feared as a robber ; but 
thev were of the class that are wiUing to be forgiven, 
and forgot it, as their uncle seemingly did. 

There was a grand family party, the next year, at the 
house of Thomas Pritchard, on the occasion of the mar 
riage of Frank de Main Pritchard and the charming 
Madehne : and the papers of the day, which we have 
consulted, bear testimony to the gallantry of the groom 
and the beauty of the bride, of which we have no 
doubt. The superb set of diamonds, given her by 
James Pritchard, was scarcely less beautiful than the 
costly products of the India looms with which she was 
presented by her husband's mother. But neither gift 
was so precious to her heart as was the blessing of her 
father, as he placed his hand upon her head and invoked 
upon her the richest of heaven's bounty for her dutiful 
regard, and kissed her brow as the amen to the prayer. 
The amen was echoed by Mr. Yarney, who took her in 
his arms, and kissed her vehemently, much to the dis- 
gust of the fashionable portion of the family, who looked 
vnih aversion, as they had at a time previously, on the 
horrid fat man. Mr. Yarney didn't know what they 
thought, and did n't care. He was as happy as though 
he had been made the possessor of aU the Indies, and 
acted accordino'lv. Some thoua'ht it was the wine, in 
which he pledged the bride's health eleven times. The 
last act of foUy which he committed was to punch the 
aristocratic James Pritchard in the ribs, ui a great style 



don't feet. 101 

of familiarity, which that gentleman overlooked in the 
hilarity of the occasion. 

The old house was torn down, soon after, by general 
consent, and a fine block of stores was raised upon its 
site, that long was regarded an ornament to the part 
of the city where it was located, and even now, though 
some thirty years have transpired, is looked at with 
pride by the older merchants. 

If the reader see no other moral in this story than 
the simple struggle for money that forms its basis, then 
the writer will feel that his real effort has been over- 
looked, and that his work has been in vain. But he 
hopes its true meaning will have been observed, and in 
this hope he leaves in their hands the story of the 
Peitchard Heies. 



DON'T FRET. 



What is the use of fretting ? Better take 

Things coolly, nor allow ourselYes to fume ; 
To growl about it cannot better make 

A thing that 's wrong, nor darkened spots illume. 
We have, we know, but little time to stay, 

With everything around us to enjoy : 
What sense were it to waste our time away. 

And leave the real gold for its alloy ? 
Fret not, 0, fret not ! — be a jolly soul, — 

That is to say, of course, be if you can ; 
Yield not yourself to anger's fierce control. 

But let good-nature's sunshine warm you, man. — 
Now, may perplexing mischief haunt the life 
Of that performer on that wretched fife ! 
9* 



"^02 THE DICKY. 



THE DICKY. 



Yery much of human happiness depends upon the 
dicky, — more, perhaps, than we are aware of, or are 
wiUing to admit. Harmony is made to respond with 
the vibration of its strings, and those strings draw at 
times closely about the heart, as well as the neck. We 
challenge philosophy to maintain itself against a refrac- 
tory dicky-string or a treacherous button. The placid- 
ity of temper that might bear a man along above and 
defiant of other accidents, shakes to its centre when 
tested by accidents that pertain to the collar. He 
becomes, perforce, choleric at once. It is not every 
one who knows how to wear a dicky : upon some it 
is never becoming, sitting as ungracefully as the sides 
of a wheelbarrow. Such people adopt the demi-dicky, 
that presents the suspicion of a shirt, but gives people 
a strong idea that the wearer is undergoing a choking 
sensation. Gracefully worn, the dicky is eminently 
ornamental, — the mirror before us gives assurance of 
the fact; but such as have not been provided by 
Providence with necks adapted to the wearing of 
dickies, should never essay it, but stick to turn-over 
collars instead. Wyars was a melancholy instance of 
the folly of such ambition. His head had, for some 
wise purpose, been placed upon his shoulders without 
the intervention of a neck, and he aspired to wear a 
dicky ! But it was the sort of ambition that o'erleaps 
itself, and condign punishment attended such gross 
infraction of the law of fitness. His dicky, as if sen- 
sible of the folly of trying to be respectable, broke 
through all restraint ; and, meet Wyars when one might, 
the dicky showed symptoms of eraticism: now about 
two points off the wind, now at right angles with the 



HEATHENISH. 103 

bcdy, and one day he appeared with both points of the 
dicky peeping very quizzically from under the hind part 
of his hat, he looking for all the world like the man 
with the turned head. He gave it up shortly after- 
wards, and now wears an extended binding of his shirt 
for a dicky, that comes up under his jowls like a splin- 
ter for a broken leg, keeping his head in a perpetual 
perpendicularity, like a martinet on parade. 



HEATHENISH. 

Radbod, tlie pagan cHef, had Tbowed Ms head 

To teachings of the holy ■word, and then 

He came the last grand offering to perform, — 

Within the holy font to wash away 

The trace of heathen sin that yet remained. 

He turned him to the priest : " Pray tell me true, 

0, man of God, where are my fathers now. 

Where are my kindred, and the loving ones 

Snatched from my bosom by remorseless death ? " 

One foot immersed, he stood the fate to hear 

Of those whose memory still was priceless held. 

*' Alas, my son, they lift their eyes in realms 

Where unbelievers shall forever dwell ! " 

Then Radbod said, as proudly he looked up. 

His dark eye flashing with the loving light 

That burned within, an ever-constant flame, 

" Where'er my kindred bide, there too will I, — 

Whether within the blest abode of those 

Redeemed and singing their celestial joy. 

Or where the darkness is forever felt 

In depths of an unutterable woe. 

As God loves me, so do I love my race." 

No more ; he straightway from the font withdrew 

His dripping foot, nor could entreaty move 

His faithful soul to forfeiture of love 

And union with his kindred in the land 

Where soul meets soul, — and so the heathen died. 



104 BEINGING UP CHILDEEN. 



BRINGING UP CHILDREN. 

With regard to the management of children, said the 
j)hilosopher, a few wholesome rules may not be amiss. 
As Solomon said, " spare the rod and spoil the child/' 
it is your duty, at the outset, to impress upon the 
mind of your child the idea that force alone is to be 
your measure of family discipKne ; but, as it may be 
troublesome and require time to apply the switch, the 
next best thing is tongue. The tongue is easily applied, 
takes little time, and is very salutary. As soon as your 
children are up in the morning, or get into the house 
from school, begin to find fault with them, and blame 
them about their looks, gait, and behavior. Speak to 
them tartly, if you want them to mind you ; there is 
nothing like a good sharp parental voice in making a 
child start quickly. It would be unbecoming weakness 
to ask them to do what you wish, and a tone of dis- 
pleased authority is very efficacious in inspiring feel- 
ings of respect. If they do not start quickly, — par- 
ticularly if a boy has his boot half on, or a girl her head 
half combed, — threaten them with dismemberment, de- 
capitation, or any other equally trifling penalty, if they 
do not jump, and the willing haste they wiU show in 
minding wiU astonish you. If children are teasing 
round you from hunger or whim, yell at them lustily, 
and threaten them with whipping. No matter whether 
you execute the threat or not, — persevere in threaten- 
ing, and after a while they may be led to believe you 
wiU do it. It may take some time, but stick to it. It 
win not do to gratify any little desire of theirs at once j 
it will look too much like bending from parental dig- 
nity. It is best always to refuse them at first, and work 
their feelings to turbulence, and then to comply ; this 



BRINGING UP CHILDREN. 105 

will give them a sense of their dependence, and your- 
self an opportunity of throwing oil upon the troubled 
waters. It is a fine experiment, when well managed ; 
and it is, besides, a practical application of the text, 
" through much tribulation," &c. If one of your chil- 
dren cry, through the teasing propensity of another, 
first look round, as if searching for something to throw 
at the head of the culprit, then, with an angry eye, dart 
upon and give him or her a rap. It will be remembered, 
you may depend. Don't waste time in counsel. This 
would derogate from the parental authority. If your 
children are noisy, it is an ingenious expedient to feign 
extreme distress, and threaten to go away or jump over- 
board ; by appealing to their affections thus for a few 
times, they will get so as to believe it. If this fail, go 
up stairs, or anywhere in the cold, under pretence 
that your head is " splitting open " from their noise. 
If a child is disposed to sing, check it at once ; it is a 
boisterous practice, and should be discouraged. As if 
heaven had not given it more use for its lungs than a 
bird ! It is a good way to cry out " Stop that noise !" 
It prevents the formation, by the child, of a too exalted 
opinion of its own vocal ability. The same rule may 
apply, if the child is disposed to dance. What can be 
more ungainly than a little child capering about a room, 
with no more consideration than a lamb ? If a child is 
disposed to be affectionate, don't return it ; remember 
that we should not love the creature more than the 
Creator. Don't show that you love it too well ; it is 
best to repel jjetulantly all little acts of endearment ; 
to encourage a child in kissing is apt to lead to bad 
results. If your children make mistakes, and are not 
ready to learn, it is a beneficial plan to rail at them for 
their stupidity, and present a microscopic view of their 



106 UNMET CONFIDENCE. 

failings ; this latter, particularly, if a neighbor or play- 
mate chance to be present. Disparaging comparisons 
are very apt to encourage them to persevere. Be care- 
ful and do not praise them for good qualities they may 
possess ; this would tend to make them vain, and vanity 
is sin. Having yourself arrived at what you know by 
intuition, or divine inspiration, of course it is of no use 
to instruct your children how to do anything. Let 
them find out as you did. You will get along a great 
deal better in your management if you have some 
grandparent or maiden-aunt to assist, especially if they 
take views opposite to yourself in everything. The 
balance is thus beautifully preserved. A good grum- 
bler is invaluable among a family of children; the 
grumbler will prevent their dying from a surfeit cf 
jollity. Depend upon it, said the philosopher, the 
advice I have given, if it be rightly understood and 
rightly applied, may be made profitable. The interests 
of time and eternity depend upon judicious family 
training ; and yet how few there are who know how to 
bring up children in the way they should go ! Almost 
all read the Solomonian injunction, '- Train up a child 
and away he '11 go," — and they go it. 



UNMET CONFIDENCE. 

Much of the evil of life springs fi'om hiding ourselves 
from each other ; and that we do hide ourselves is the 
result of a want of confidence in each other, that would 
aUow us to give and receive with kindness. We dare 
not tell one of his faults, though they may be very 
apparent, because we fear to offend him. He sets us 
down as his enemy, at once, when we wound his self- 
esteem by intimating that he is not infallible. So when 



UNMET CONFIDENCE. 107 

others are spoken of in whom we have interest. An 
intimation of their possible imperfection excites us 
against the one breathing the suspicion. We know the 
charges are wrong ; we feel that we cannot have been 
mistaken in the individuals who so much engross our 
esteem, and hence we cast off those who, by the very 
act of daring to incur our displeasure, have proved them- 
selves our best friends, and the most worthy of our 
friendship. The charges may be false, groundless, but 
they should be made, in orker to be met and refuted, and 
the motive of their being submitted canvassed, and its 
sincerity established. In domestic matters the want of 
this confidence is severely felt. The tart and scornful 
reply to a confided thing checks future candor in that 
direction. No man, if he have any spirit, will incur the 
danger of getting snubbed twice in the same way. 
Hence when, after many days, scandal bears tales to 
ears that should have heard them long ago, tears and 
bitterness make a dismal episode in life, that never would 
have occurred if those who weep had known the secret 
of securing their own happiness. An ingenuous spirit 
should be met with equal openness and candor. To 
cramp such a spirit, and still its warmth by reproach, or 
innuendo, or indifference, is a fatal mistake, and lays the 
foundation for a healthy growth of misery in the time to 
come, when love and confidence are most needed. Men 
speak in very severe terms, and justly, of deserted homes 
and domestic wrong ; but, could they become acquainted 
with the facts that led to such desertion and such wrong, 
they would find, maybe, that their sympathies are due in 
a different direction from that in which they have been 
solicited. This is a lesson which will admit of much 
thought, and, as the old gentleman remarked when he 
laced the boy's shoulders with an ox-goad, we hope it 
will do good. 



108 THE DEAD SAILOE. 



THE DEAD SAILOR. 

His sails are furled, his voyage is done, — 

Now may the gallant sailor rest ; 
The peaceful port his bark has won. 

No hostUe storms shall more molest ; 
Life's boisterous course he has bravely run, — 

Lay him away, with his worth confest. 

Ay, throw above him the starry pall 
He loved so well in his hours of life ; 

He has seen its gossamer shadow fall 

Where the spirits of ocean waged their strife. 

Has waved its folds round earth's huge ball. 
His soul with its sovereign glories rife. 

'T is a fitting shroud, and he loved it well. 
But his beaming eye is glazed and cold. 

And his manly heart will never swell 
To see it in starry pride unfold ; 

Yet place it there, — its stars may tell 
The shining deeds of the sailor bold. 

It may tell the tale of a generous heart. 
That never refused a friend's appeal ; 

It may tell of tears that dared to start 
From founts that pity bade unseal ; 

It may teU of a bolder, a sterner part, 
Where duty claimed his nerves of steel. 

All, all alone ! not a kinsman near 

To see the earth receive its own ; 
No gallant messmate by his bier. 

To mark his frail wreck where 't is thrown ; 
The winds siag o'er him an anthem drear. 

And the heavens their tears outpour alone. 

But naught he cares : nor rain, nor cold. 
Nor in of earth, doth the body know ; 

His spirit eyes on scenes unfold 

Surpassing all he has knovra below ; 

Around and above him are joys untold. 
He ne'er would exchange for moi'tal woe. 



THE COOLIES. 109 

Then lay his hulk where the bright flowers bloom, 

When the bitter mnter storms are fled, 
Where the apple-blossoms shall give perfume. 

And the grass its emerald beauties spread. 
Where the stars he loved shall ever illume 

With gentle rays his lowly bed. 
And birds all the summer long shall come 

And sins; o'er the sailor dead. 



THE COOLIES 



*^Well, what if they did?" said Mrs. Partington, 
as the visitor was condemning certain parties for the 
transportation of coohes. She glanced at the ther- 
mometer, as she spoke, with the mercury indicating 
ninety degrees, at the same time inhaling a pinch of 
Col. Ehoades' rappee. '^I think they ought to be 
praised," continued she, " for trying to get a little 
coolly anywhere, such times as these. How hot it is, 
to be sure ! It is almost equal to the horrid zone ; " 
and the old lady fanned herself energetically. — " But," 
said her friend, " I mean the coolies, brought from the 
East." — " Well," responded the dame, '' it does seem 
like an interference with the plans of Providence to 
bring them here ; but when the wind sticks at the 
south all the time, they shouldn't be blamed for trying 
to get the east winds to cool the people off with, any- 
how." Her friend looked at her with compassionate 
benignity, but attempted no further explanation, while 
Ike sat endeavoring to make the sundered parts of the 
old lady's cooler stick together, as he had seen Signer 
Bhtz do. 

10 



110 TALKING HORSE. 



TALKING HORSE. 



It is very amusing, during a trotting season, to ob- 
serve the horse-bent of conversation at the grounds, 
and outside, among those, small and large, who are 
interested in horses. It seems as if every man was 
thinking horse, and by sympathy had become half horse. 
Indeed, one might be excused for watching the mouths 
of those speaking with the expectation of having them 
neigh like horses, as those who come from sections 
where lobsters are caught become so imbued with lob- 
ster as to partake of the peculiarities of that excellent 
fish. Passing round from group to group, it appears 
like hearkening to the same conversation, divided into 
sections. In each section the same matters are dis- 
cussed : horse genealogy, horse manners, horse points, 
horse riding, and horse raising — the latter so frequently 
that a general equine resurrection seems the main point 
of horse belief One would think, at such times, that 
there was no other animal in the world than the horse, 
and that the whole of human progression, with its 
weight of moral and social interests, was to be helped 
along on horseback, or upon a spider-web vehicle, weigh- 
ing but about seventy-five pounds. A man who cannot 
talk horse, then and there, is floored — is nowhere — is 
obsolete — is done up. Though he should speak with 
the tongues of angels and of men and have no knowl- 
edge of horse, he is as nothing. The merest tyro of 
the curry-comb turns up his nose at him. It is well to 
affect horse, at such times, though one may not know 
the mane from the tail, or the snaffle from the side-sad- 
die. Some pursue this course, and win a great reputa- 
tion by listening and looking. Looking at a horse 
appro ciatingly and admiringly is about half equal to 



PICTUEES. Ill 

speaking about him, and some have by this course been 
able to pass as respectably under the eyes of the initiate 
as though they were born and educated in a stable. 



PICTURES. 

We don't care whether pictures abound in a house 
from pride, fashion, or taste, so that they be there. If 
there is insensibility in the proprietor, he may be the 
means of gratifying taste in others, or of awakening a 
taste where it was lying inactive before. It is more de- 
lightful, of course, where good taste prompts their sup- 
ply J then the pleasure of the exhibitor is added to the 
gazer, be he never so humble, and the two realize a 
better brotherhood, — not before recognized, perhaps, — 
in the broad avenue of natural taste. How cheerful the 
walls of a home look with them ; and, by the rule of op- 
posites, how cheerless without them ! It is a garden 
without flowers, a family without children. Let an ob- 
serving man enter a house, and ten times in ten he can 
decide the character of the proprietor. If he is a mean 
man, there will be no pictures ; if rich and ostentatious, 
they will be gairish and costly, brought from over the 
water, with expensive frames, and mated with mathemati- 
cal exactness ; if a man of taste, the quality is observable, 
and, whatever their number or arrangement, regard has 
evidently been had to the beauty of subject and fitness, 
with just attention to hght and position. In humble 
homes, when this taste exists, it still reveals itself, thougli 
cheaply, but the quick eye detects it and respects it. 
We have seen it in a prison, where a judicious placing 
of a wood-cut or a common lithograph has given almost 
cheerfulness to the stone walls on which it hung. 



112 THE OCEAN. — FATALITY. 



THE OCEAN. 

Thou art jolly in thy mood, 0, playful giant. 

Hurling us liere and yon, despite our will. 
To all entreaties deaf — to all defiant — 

Holding no moment, at our bidding, still. 
The poets praise thee — those upon some mountain. 

From which their optics thy bright face can see. 
Dipping their cups in the Castalian fountain. 

Pouring libations soft in praise of thee. 
0, treacherous sea ! how sweet thou look'st but now. 

And smooth, as is the cheek of maiden fair ; — 
There are ten thousand wrinkles on thy brow. 

And anger's fury in thy hoary hair. 
Let poets sing of thee — 't is my conviction 
They 'd sing another tune, if 'neath thy jurisdiction ! 



FATALITY. 



" Did you ever notice/' said Dr. Spooner, " the fatal- 
ity that attends upon the name of Atwood? Meet with 
it where you will, oysters may be found connected with 
it as closely as barnacles to a ship's copper. It seems 
the most natural thing in the world. Atwood seems as 
much made for oysters as oysters for Atwood. I can't 
understand it, any more than I can spirit rapping or the 
aurora borealis. It is one of those mysterious phenom- 
ena of the universe that cannot be fathomed by the 
usual rules of interpretation. Should I go to England, 
I should expect to find Atwood engaged in the oyster 
business. "Were I to go to France, I should be greatly 
disappointed did I not find Mons. Atwood opening the 
bivalves to my order. Were I to find my way to China, 
I should look for Atwood with a long tail to suppty me 
with oysters ! It is very strange, and I never look at 
the sign bearing the name without thinking of this des- 



A SEEIOUS CALL. 113 

tiny — this oystere destiny, if I am allowed tlie privilege 
of indulging in a little pleasantry — tliat chains them to 
a specific calling, like old Sassafras that rolled the big 
rock up the mountain." — " I have myself noticed this 
fatahty," said the imperturbable, who sat smoking in the 
corner, " and your remark about meeting the name in 
foreign parts I myself have tested. I have met it in Paris, 
in Amsterdam ; and once, when in Cairo, Egypt, as I 
was talving some oysters with a friend, I had the curiosity 
to ask the name of the one who kept the place, with 
a view to establishing the fact of which we are speak- 
ing, and the name was given of " — " Atwood, of 

course," said the Doctor, breaking in. — " No, sir," re- 
plied the imperturbable, " it was Tomally, an Egyptian as 
black as your hat." He kept on with his smoking, 
while the Doctor pulled on his glove and went out, 
evidently troubled at the smile that greeted his discom- 
fiture. 



A SERIOUS CALL 



What of the niglit, 0, watchman on the walls ? 

Dost see the day-star through the mist arise ? 
Hears't thou the herald voice of God, that calls. 

Speaking as once it spoke from out the skies ? 
Has man aught further on his journey passed 

Li the dark shadows of the dreary night ? 
Will his horizon long be overcast. 

And thick the veil that keeps from him the light ? 
What of the night, 0, watchmen ? See yon gleam 

Shoot upward from the darkly-curtained east ! 
It is the day-star's radiating beam — 

Now from its thrall will manhood be released ! 
What of the night ? — 0, why this silence deep ? — 
No day-star beams to them — the watchmen are asleep. 
10* 



114 THE BARON OP BOSTON. 



THE BAEON OP BOSTON. 

The Baron he liveth a happy life — 

0, a happy man is he ! 
Por his mind has no shade of care or strife, 

And its fancies are bright and free. 
No acres broad doth the Baron boast. 

But his heart is rich as a king's. 
And that dominion he craves the most 

Is what good fellowship brings. 
As he laughs, 
As he quaffs. 

In the light which his happiness flings. 

And the bold Baron sits in a regal way — 

His retainers are friends most true, 
And he rules them at will by the magical play 

Of his fancies rich and new. 
His sceptre 's a Cuba, of title proud, 

Betipped with a glowing star. 
And his crown is a circle of fragrant cloud. 

More graceful than jewels are. 
As he puffs. 
As he snuffs 

His odorous, sweet cigar. 

No malice he bears in his genial breast. 

No bitter thoughts he knows ; 
So full of his own broad friendship blest. 

No room has he for foes. 
He welcomes a friend with a loving cheer. 

With the clasp of a generous hand. 
No human ice in his sunshine clear 

Can ever unmelted stand ; 
And he smiles 
And beguiles 

By the heart's own kind command. 

And long may the Baron his rule preserve, 

And his castle doors be stout. 
With garrisoned larder and cellar to serve 

To keep the enemy out ; / 



SWEARING. 115 

And •when in the evening of life the gale 

Shall bear him fi-om Time's rough coast. 
May he speed o'er the sea with a "willing sail. 
To the haven desired most. 
And his elegy 
The world shall see 
Recorded in the Post. 



SWEAEING. 



Almost every one accustomed to smoking, who has a 
j)roper regard for the little courtesies of life, asks, be- 
fore he indulges in his propensity, if it may be offensive 
to any. Suppose the same question were asked with 
regard to swearing, by those who are disposed to in- 
dulge in the luxury of blaspheming. There are times 
when good taste is fearfully shocked by the introduction 
of words and sentiments that should not be spoken by 
the members of any circle ; and, though not disposed to 
claim for ourselves a very great measure of sanctity, 
there are times when we have been offended — to use a 
very mild term for the feeling — at expressions which 
good manners should have suppressed, and good morals 
should never have allowed to enter the mind of those 
who uttered them. We think the time has gone by 
when profanity is generally regarded as an essential 
adjunct of wit, and that a story loses nothing of its 
piquancy when the profanity is left out. It is very 
offensive to have an obtrusive head, with an oath ever 
between its teeth, thrust among decent people, and it is a 
wonder that sensible men, themselves, who speak pro- 
fanely — and there are too many such — should not see 
the probable disagreeable nature of it to those who 
hear them, and suppress it. At least, they might pre- 



116 THE PEIMA DONNA. 

face tlieir remarks with the question, " Is swearing 
offensive to you ? " If, as in nine cases out of ten where 
the same question is asked about smoking, the answer 
is in the negative, then the swearer can blaze away with 
his anathemas and imprecations till the teeth of every- 
body chatter to hear him. Many seem to swear uncon- 
sciously, the oaths coming in as naturally as italic 
words in the emphasis of conversation ; and, like the 
boy who declared that he did n't whistle in school — 
that it whistled itself, they might give the same excuse 
for it. There is something very unsatisfactory in 
swearing, and after a man has indulged in his profane 
stories, and has made crowds laugh by them, he feels, 
when he gets by himself, that he has n't much to brag 
of, after all, and that 

** The atheist laugh 's a poor exchange 
For Deity ojGfended." 



THE PRIMA DONNA. 

" Did you like her vocaKzation ? " asked the amateur, 
reaching over the seat on which Mrs. Partington was 
sitting, as a young lady finished the singing of a favor- 
ite piece of music, in a manner that set every heart 
thriUing with pleasure to hear her. — " What did you 
say ? " said she, turning partly round. — " Did you hke 
her vocalization ? " he repeated. — " Yes," replied she, 
with animation, beating the time on her umbreUa-handle, 
" and I liked her singing too." She kept on, like a jolly 
old wheelbarrow — ""Why should we send to Europe 
and England and France and Fiddledee for executioners 
of music, when we can find such voices at home by our 
own fireplaces? It seemed to me while she was singing 



MISANTHROPY. 117 

that we were getting over the bars of heaven, and had 
come to a rest on top when she stopped. The music of 
the spears can't be no better. But do look at that 
boy ! I declare I believe he will be a prodigal of musical 
talons, by and by, if he lives long enough." She pointed 
at Ike, who had secured a long-handled contribution- 
box out of the deacon's pew, and had transformed it 
into an imaginary violoncello, playing upon it with the 
handle of a deceased palm-leaf fan, the fragments of 
which strewed the floor. 



MISANTHROPY. 



The picture in Bleak House, representing " the 
young man Guppy " in the theatre, with dishevelled 
hair and desperation upon his brow, after being rejected 
by Esther, is very ludicrous. The young man feels that 
fate has done him a deep wrong, and he defies fate. He 
challenges fate to hit him again. The milk of human 
kindness has dried up in him, and he is now lacteally 
farrow. Guppy is one of a class that we meet with 
almost every day, who, through large self-esteem and a 
sovereign belief in their own importance, become mis- 
anthropic at the first breath of ill-luck, and resolve to 
punish the world, that they conceive has injured them, 
by leaving it to its own destruction. "We '11 have noth- 
ing to do with this ill-natured world, they say, which 
has so far lost sight of its own interests as to treat us, 
its brightest ornaments, so badly, and then see how it 
will get along ! We abjure it, we leave it, we wash our 
hands of it. In this spite they regard the world, and 
bore the ears and plague the hearts of all who listen to 
their complaints. They see, however, the great globe 



118 MEASURING LOYE. 

spin on, to their utter disgust, and find that, after all, 
they are acting very foolishly; that growling does no 
good, and that a cheerful acquiescence in the dispensa- 
tions of Providence, and humble trust, are far better than 
breaking one's head in futile buttings against destiny or 
accident. Nine times out of ten, those who growl the 
most against the world have most reason to growl 
about themselves. They make, by their own stupidity 
[or improvidence, the fortune they deprecate, and have 
no more reason to quarrel about it than they would 
have to complain that destiny gave them a sore finger 
after they had put their finger in the fire. Could people 
who attempt the misanthrope but look at the ridiculous 
Mr. Guppy, it would seem that they should be cured 
of the disease of overvaluing themselves. 



MEASURING LOVE. 

" BBiEr, brief at best is all the love of man ! 
A word, a promise in a moment broke, 
As eyanescent as the wreathing smoke 
That melts in air ere we its form may scan." — 
Nay, loved one, nay, speak not the cruel word. 
For recently, when on the railway train, 
My fleet thoughts fleeter flew to thee again, 
And love for thee my heart's emotion stirred : 
More ardent grew the faster that we flew. 
And every mile the passion warmer burned. 
And every mile my heart the fonder yearned 
To pour for thee its offering warm and true. 
Talk of the length of love ! Why, all this while 
My love you might have measured by the mile. 



PLEBEIAN PRETENSION. 119 

PLEBEIAN PRETENSION. 

The doctor said it was a case of the gout — a clear 
case. This was surprising to everybody, and every- 
body smiled hugely at the idea ; for beyond the most 
frugal limit of appetite, including occasional tea, the 
sufferer had not gone. There was a great flutter in the 
family on account of it, because a case of the gout, they 
deemed, brought respectability with it. Sir Leicester 
Dedlock, in Bleak House, had the gout, and gloried in 
it, because it was a disease that had been in the family 
for many generations, and he had it by descent. But 
here was a case where it had left the charmed circle of 
the aristocracy, and had planted itself directly upon a 
plebeian toe ; — painfully, it is true, and the flesh cringed 
and groaned in the utter misery of it ; but it was " re- 
spectable," and a grateful posterity, it was deemed, 
would look back reverently to the one who had intro- 
duced the gout into the family blood. That doctor was 
regarded as a marvellous man, whose science had pene- 
trated through the rheumatic and erysipelatic indica- 
tions, and had singled the gout as the actual disorder, 
then gnawing like a vicious devil at the mortal extrem- 
ity ; and it was with a thrill of pride that inquirers for 
the health of the sufferer were assured that the gout 
was the malady. Then old plates in Gentlemen's Maga- 
zines were sought, by which to define the true position 
for the gouty patient, — to determine whether the foot 
should rest at an angle of forty or sixty degrees, or on a 
plane with the horizon, — the difficulty being dispelled by 
an old habitue of the theatres, who prescribed a flowered 
dressing-gown, plenty of flannels, and the foot upon a 
common cricket, as the theatrical position, and it was 
forthwith adopted. The world affected to laugh about 



120 THE FRANKLIN STATUE. 

it, — it was sucli a glorious joke ! — the world always 
jokes when it affects to sympathize. Here was a claim to 
gentility ; here was an attempt to overstep, with a gouty 
foot, old landmarks, by one who had no legitimate right 
to the position, and men were alarmed ; but, though 
they tried to sneer it down as rheumatism, and roar 
about it till they were red as erysipelas, the doctor, 
who ought to know, said it was the gout, and the suf- 
ferer, standing on his crutches, swore he would cut his 
toe off before he would abate one nail of his claim — 
that it was so. 



THE FRANKLIN STATUE. 



" Did you see the statue ? " we asked of Mrs. Par- 
tington, the next day after the inaugurative procession. 
An expression of disappointment passed over her 
features, as she answered, " No, I did n't ; it must have 
gone by when I went down stairs to get some water for 
the children. A three-cornered gentleman, with a 
cocked hat, on a cart, I took to be it ; but I found out 
that it was one of Franklin's contemptuaries, an old 
printer. But the occasion was very obtrusive," con- 
tinued she, brightening up like a jolly old warming-pan, 
" and if I did n't see the statue, somebody else did ,* so 
it 's just as well." She smiled again, and subsided into 
a calm, while Ike, with three chairs, and Lion harnessed 
to a table, filled with a clothes-basket, four chairs, and a 
water-bucket, was '' making believe " a car in a proces- 
sion on his own account. Lion didn't seem to enjoy it. 



A WAY TO BE HAPPY. 121 



A WAY TO BE HAPPY. 



The study to be liappy is a momentous one, and its 
pursuit is one of the great rights that are laid down in 
our political decalogue. How to be happy is just what 
we all would like to know. A few suggestions on this 
subject may not be amiss ; and if they should not be 
deemed exactly the thing, try the opposite course from 
the one recommended, and see if that will secure the 
desired end. Get up in the morning scolding and fret- 
ting with everything and everybody — it will be an 
excellent discipline for yourself, and give your family 
an ardent appetite for breakfast ; and if the fault happen 
to be with your wife, make no apology — it is a lesson 
put in in advance, and will operate prospectively. 
Growl about the expense of dinner, and hint about 
being ruined through hoiiie extravagance ; this will, of 
course, secure economy, and help bring about perfect 
peace in the household. Kick the dog, if he is in your 
way, and if he bite you it will afford excellent evidence 
that things are working. Refuse to acknowledge your 
neighbor's bow ; he is a wretch that some one has been 
talking about, and hence deserves to be cut by one of 
your superior purity ; of course, your contempt will 
break his heart. Complain to the widow next door that 
her son is a disgrace to the neighborhood, and hint to 
her about the Farm School and the poor-house; it will 
tend very much to cheer her. When you come home 
and find the floor scoured, plant your dirty feet upon 
it ; the cheerful phenomena attending this experiment 
will be very novel. Be crabbed as a bear to employes, 
and find all the fault you can ,* nothing gives such a de- 
licious flow to the spirit, and secures such willing ser- 
vice, as good wholesome censure. Always assert your 
11 



122 NEW ENGLAND'S LION. — UNNATURAL FATHERS. 

own superior claim to wisdom, and prove your com- 
panions' stupidity by measuring their little corn in your 
big bushel ; it will give them a very exalted opinion of 
you. If a boy come into your store to sell you any- 
thmg, drive him off, and threaten to set the dog on him ; 
it will encourage him to persevere in an honest calling. 
We have laid down a few propositions, which may be 
added to. Should one follow these carefully, he would 
soon, undoubtedly, attain the ultimate of mundane bliss. 



NEW ENGLAND'S LION 

A LION 's in our path, but not like him, 

Li Eastern climes, the monarch of the wood. 
Whose roaring echoes through the jungles dim. 

In which he lurks in sanguinary mood, 
Waiting to lay his predatory paw 

UnprayerfuUy on what may come as prey, 
And by the force of his own mighty law 

Make all pay toll who cross his royal way. 
New England's lion greets us by our path. 

His bright eye, golden in its rim of green, 
Flashes not on us with a glance of wrath. 

But e'er in sweet placidity is seen. 
Between the lions of the East and West, 
The Dandelion I proclaim the best. 



UNNATURAL FATHERS. 

The conversation had somehow turned upon parents 
in plays who were depicted as turning their children 
out of doors for disobedience, and incidents were cited 
m actual life where the same thing had been done. 
These were pronounced very unnatural, and much in- 
dignation was expressed at their occurrence. One 
instance, in particular, was named that seemed like the 



UNNATURAL FATHERS. 123 

recital of an old-world tale, where a tyrannical father 
had shut his door against his daughter for the offence 
of loving and marrying one obnoxious to him, and she 
had sickened and died with not one word of forgive- 
ness or message of love from his cold lips, and he had 
denied her even the honor of a formal attendance at her 
funeral. " Shame ! shame ! '^ was the cry ; " how un- 
natural ! " Dr. Spooner raised his finger. The glove 
was off, as though he were fearful the intervention of 
thread would disturb the electric force of the gesture. 
" Not unnatural," said he ; " pardon me, but to my view 
the conduct of such a father is the most natural thing in 
the world. Whi/, do you ask? Because the relation 
between such father and daughter is entirely natural, 
without one ray of spiritual light to illumine it, without 
one feeling of spiritual sympathy to cement it. Such 
fathers are the Dombeys, who are incapable of sympa- 
thetic feeling ; who marry and .raise families, and culti- 
vate pride for affection, which is tested in scenes like 
the one named. Their marriages are conventional, and 
their offspring partake of the same conventionality. 
They are proud of their children, as they might be of 
their horses, and the world calls it affection; but, at 
the first breath of opposition to their rule or inclination, 
from a child that dares to love, the offended pride turns 
the child out of doors, and has no remorseful feelings 
afterwards for the act. Love does not thus. It may at 
times storm and rave at opposition, where the hopes of 
a lifetime are blasted by wilfulness — inherited wilful- 
ness, maybe — on the part of children ; but where true 
affection is, obdurate pride, anger, frustrated intention, 
everything yields to its gentle pleadings, that neve>- 
plead in vain. Depend upon it, there is nothing un- 
natural about the case you have named." 



124 A DIFFICULTY. — LOVE. 

A DIFFICULTY. 

" Domestic difficulties/' said Mrs. Partington, " comes 
in different guys, — some is quarrelling, some is pov- 
erty, and some is something else ; but this is the great- 
est of 'em all." She pointed to a paper, as she spoke, 
which chronicled six children at a birth. ^^ There 's dif- 
ficulty," continued she ; " and how the poor mother will 
overcome it is more than I can imagine. Only think, 
six mouths to feed, six dresses to wash, six heads to 
comb, six cases of chicken-pox to take care of, six 
measles to look after, six to pull out of the water, six to 
keep from getting run over, six to buy books for, and 
six to get places for when they grow up. I declare I 
don't see how she can ever get over it." No wonder 
that she saw the difficulty, when she found it so hard to 
manage one, who even then was trying the experiment, 
that he had seen Blitz perform, of balancing a plate on 
his finger, to fall in a moment to irremediable smash. 



LOVE. 

The pulse of life is Love, — without its throb, 

Men were but mere machines, and poor at that. 
And all life's duties but a weary job. 

Like these, my rhymes, — unprofitable, stale, and flat ! 
Love is born with and in us and around. 

It lights our cradle with its ray serene. 
It follows us in sorrow's depths profound, 

It shi-inks not, howsoever drear the scene ; 
Stronger when woe's dense cloud of trial lowers. 

Its voice is heard stUl breathing in the gloom. 
As the sweet herb of night expands its flowers. 

And sheds amid the darkness its perfume ! 
Yet Love too oft feels not the gentle mesh 
Of olden thrall, but sighs for pots of flesh. 



HEIR-LOOMS. 125 

HEIR -LOO MS. 

How sacred a thing is made, by the lapse of time ! A 
stick that one of onr remote ancestors has carried in his 
hands may have been handed down to ns ; and though he 
is one with whom, in the world of matter, Ave have nothing 
in common that we know of, unless it be a common name, 
and that perhaps changed in the spelling, we are brought 
near to him by this simple twig — a meaningless thing 
in itself — to which, by some strange process, the spirit 
of its original owner has imparted itself. Why not ? 
No thought is lost, and why may it not be that our ven- 
erable ancestor's thought, that prompted him to cut the 
twig we prize, and cherish it, and trim off the knots and 
make it so comely and shapely, and to guard it for many 
a year, may still in some way — we '11 not say how — 
protect it, in order that it may be a connecting thing 
between himself and his descendants, thus preserving a 
•sympathetic rapjport between the past and the present ? 
It has always seemed to us that heir-looms were imbued 
with this old spirit, for this purpose. And that they 
have their effect is manifest in the way that they are 
cherished by those people who are governed by the 
" sentimentality " that recognizes the value of a thing 
above its market price, and set more by an old cocked- 
hat, or a pair of small-clothes, or a faded dress, than by a 
thousand new things, with no association, beyond the 
fact that they may not yet have been paid for, to com- 
mend them. What sacredness attaches to an old chair, 
for instance, whose arms have held many a generation 
that still speak to us ! Our ancestors embrace us in 
the antique and queer frame, and we repeat the asser- 
tion of Miss Ehza Cook that " we love it." It would 

bring, perhaps, twenty-five cents at auction, and every- 
11* 



126 don't look back. 

body but ourselves would laugh at it; but every sliver 
of it has a value that money cannot offset. Heir-looms 
have good influences about them, inasmuch as they 
come down from good people. Things thus transmitted 
bear some evidence of person or deed that is pleasant 
• — representing, in this direction, one combining many 
virtues, and in this some act that it makes us better to 
know, though generations removed from the time and 
scene of its occurrence. A knife or a halter would not be 
preserved as an heir-loom, nor the memory of crime- 
stained life be very particularly cherished, outside the 
annals of justice. So we honor our ancestors through 
transmitted timber, old crockery, or old pictures, or keep 
alive patriotic emotions by collecting canes from old 
Ironsides, Independence Hall, or Mount Yernon. 



DON'T LOOK BACK. 

How some men dwell and ponder on the past ; 

Like ghosts come back 'neath glimpses of the moon 
Sighing o'er hopes and joys too bright to last. 

And happiness departed all too soon ! 
Like owls they live, delighted with the night. 

Or brood in hollows where the sun ne'er cheers. 
Shutting their eyes perversely to the light, 

That broad before them evermore appears. 
0, men, throw off the sombre pall which hides 

From your soul's vision the bright land To Be, 
And sail on hopeful o'er the flowing tides 

That tend toward the everlasting sea ! 
This counsel heed : that track 's the rightest one 
That brings our vessel's prow the nearest to the sun. 



GOOD EESOLUTIONS. 127 

GOOD EESOLUTIONS. 

" This is the season of good resolutions/^ said the 
young man, in answer to Dr. Spo oner's wish for a happy 
new year. '^Nominally/' rephed the Doctor ; "there is 
something in the commencement of a new year that nat- 
urally suggests thought of habits contracted or pam- 
pered during the year that 's past, and, as we see them 
clinging to us like vampires, sucking the marrow from 
our moral or physical bones, we plant our feet with 
something very like resolution, and say we will turn 
over a new leaf. And we are honest in the determina- 
tion, and mean to stick to it ; but, alas ! with the waning 
year resolution wanes, and we find that our promises, 
like pie-crust, are very easily broken. Like a man full 
of wine and meat disavowing a desire for victuals, so 
we, with appetites satiated, for the nonce deem that ap- 
petite is an easy thing to overcome ; but we find that 
we cannot throw it aside with our tobacco. It becomes 
an importunate thing, that, like Banquo's ghost, obtrudes 
itself in our hours of pleasure, and everywhere. It is 
an ever-present thing. Memory battles with resolution, 
and the diseased fancy clothes the banished with a 
thousand fascinations, and we become its victim, till a 
new year brings new resolutions, to be broken again in 
after time. When a man leaves off a habit and resumes 
it again," continued the Doctor, " I am reminded of the 
scripture where the evil one goes out of a man and 
seeks rest in dry places, but, finding none, he returns to 
his old apartments that have been cleaned up during 
his absence, to follow the simplifying rule laid down by 
my friend Dr. Sawyer, and the latter days of that man 
are worse than his first. Habit and appetite once estab- 
lished, they are about as hard to throw off as was the 



128 MRS. PARTINGTON ON MUSIC. 

little old man of the sea, who volunteered as a neck-tie 
for the renowned Sinbad. Stick to your resolution, my 
young friend, for one month, and you will deserve a 
medal as big as a griddle for your moral heroism." — 
" And did you ever find it thus hard ? " the young man 
inquired ; " did you ever have habits thus hard to over- 
come ? " — " Did I ? '^ repeated the Doctor, twitching at 
his gloves nervously. " Who is there that has them not? 
Habit takes a thousand forms, and he who rails the 
loudest at you for using tobacco or wine may have a 
habit' of cormorantish appetite dragging him down in 
another direction." The Doctor went out, leaving the 
young man standing with meditation in his eye and a 
paper of silver-leaf tobacco in his hand, the open stove- 
door before him. 



MRS. PARTINGTON ON MUSIC. 

" Music is one of the greatest attractions of home," 
said the teacher, leaning his left hand upon the table, 
and elevating his right, with the fore-finger protruding, 
like a lightning-rod. " The greatest attraction," he repeat- 
ed, drumming upon the table with his sinister digits, as if 
he would enforce his remark by a practical example. — 
"Well," said Mrs. Partington, smoothing down a seam 
in some garment she was maldng, " I believe it is, and 
when our neighbor, Mr. Smooth, got his new pioneer 
fort for his noisy children, it seemed as if they had added 
forty detractions to home, for they were always quarrel- 
ling like dog's-delight to see who should play on to it. 
The way to make home harmonious," — and she looked 
up with an expression of great wisdom, as she said it, 
her eyes glancing through the western window at the 



SACRILEGIOUS. 129 

Old South vane, that gleamed in the sunshine, as if 
catching the ray of her own inspiration, — " the way to 
make home harmonious is to organize it — to buy a 
hand-organ, and hire somebody to play on to it. The 
noise of it would soon put a stop to all the family jars, 
depend upon it." She bit off the thread of her discourse 
and her cotton at the same time, while her listener 
smiled faintly, either at the misapprehension she was 
evidently laboring under, or at the newness of her the- 
ory with regard to the harmony of home, but made no 
further remark. 



SACRILEGIOUS. 



" SiCH corruption in the church ! '' said Mrs. Parting- 
ton, bringing her hands down severely on a paper she 
was reading, containing an account of an Episcopal ded- 
ication somewhere. There was instantly great attention. 
" I read here," continued she, " that the archbishop came 
in with his mitre ands^o^e; and, if stealing is n't corrup- 
tion, then I don't know what is." She looked round 
upon the circle, and there was a smile perceptible upon 
the faces of such as understood what she was driving 
at. Just as one of the party was going to explain to 
her that she was lying under a misapprehension. Lion 
rushed in with Ike on his back, and the harmony of the 
circle was interrupted. 



'30 AN OLD FABLE MODERNIZED. 



AN OLD FABLE MODERNIZED. 

I GLEAJsr this fable from jolly old Rabelais, 
Who ne'er marred a story by telling it shabbily, 
And I earnestly hope that my versification 
Will give to its moral a plain application ; 
Which moral will show that by acting too speedily. 
And grasping and striving for aught over greedily, 
'T will end most likely in signal disaster 
(Reward from the ancient particular master) , 
While we who are modest, and not any covetous. 
Taking all quiet, as Fortune may shove it us, 
WiU make out better, be sure, at the last of it. 
And in its enjoyment make ample repast of it : 

One day, when the gods, in high debate. 
Had waxed quite warm on concerns of state. 
And Jupiter Tonans wiped his face. 
As discussion found a resting place — 
(For on the nods of the gods, you know. 
Depended all matters then below. 
And business of merely men or kings. 
Or any other terrestrial things, 
Must come before the conclave high. 
Convened in chambers of the sky) , — 
That a fearful clamor from earth arose. 
Like the accent of a thousand woes. 
That broke the Thunderer's short repose. 

*' What are the sounds that our ears profane? 
Mercury ! start like a railway train ; 
Open the windows of heaven, and know 
The cause of aU this rumpus below." 

Then Mercury listened with eager ear. 
And smiled to himself the sound to hear. 
For in truth it struck him as rather queer : 

"0, Jupiter Tonans," a voice cried out. 
With tone stentoriously stout. 
That rung like a trumpet arraying a host - ■ 
*' 0, Jupiter Tonans ! my axe is lost ! 



AN OLD FABLE MODEKNIZED. 131 

0, cruel fortune, thus for to bother one ! 
0, great Jupiter, give me another one ! " 

Then Jupiter ■winked "with an ominous leer. 

As he the petitioner's prayer did hear — 

" Confound the fellow 1 what clamor he makes ! 

The Tery concave of heaven he shakes, 

As if he 'd all of creation tax, 

By making this muss about his axe ! 

Yet offer hun one of silver or gold, 

He 'd no longer clamor for this so bold. 

Run, MercTU'y, run ! or, sure as a gun, 

By this chap's noise we are all undone ! 

Offer him axe of silver and gold. 

And ii'on — his own choice uncontrolled — 

I '11 stake my sceptre that he '11 think higher on 

Either the silver or gold than the iron ; 

But if he choose silver or gold instead, 

I say, ]\Iercuxy, off with his head ! ' ' 

Jupiter frowned like easterly weather. 
And the gods, afirighted, huddled together. 
And shook in every wing and feather ! 

Mercury gave one jump, and flew. 
Cutting his way through the ether blue. 
And quick as the lightning made his tracks. 
Where the man was bellowing for his axe. 
" Here 'tis, old chap ! " then Mercury said, 
And threw before him the gold one red. 
" None of your tricks," says he, right cross, 
" 'T is n't for this I mourn the loss." 
Then Mercury threw the silver down. 
Which suited still less the weeping clown ; 
But when the iron one met his view. 
He cried, delighted, " 'Tis good as new." 
He held its handle, and grasped it tight. 
And said, " Old fellow, this ere 's all right ! " 
Then Mercury called him an honest soul. 
Told him for this he should have the whole ; 
Then left all three with the happy elf. 
And went right back to report himself. 

Now the clod was rich, and with few words 
He bought him houses, and barns, and herds. 



132 AN OLD FABLE MODERNIZED, 

His neighbors wondered this to see. 
And sought to unravel the mystery ; 
Nor long did he their wondering tax. 
But told the story about his axe. 
Then all who had axes vowed to go 
And see what luck to them would flow ; 
And those who had none stopped at naught. 
But sold their goods and axes bought, 
Then went away, resolved to lose 'em. 
And make appeal to Jove's own bosom. 
Convinced that he would not refuse 'em. 

Their clamoring wakened all the sky. 

And angry grew the Thunderer's eye, — 

Who summoned Mercury to go 

Upon his errand again below — 

" These chaps must n't be left to pother one. 

Serve them just as you did the other one ; 

Put the test that then you tried. 

Let them for themselves decide. 

Give what they ax, and let 'em slide ! " 

Down went Mercury on his mission 

Where they noisily made petition. 

The golden axe on the ground he threw : 

The first one greedily at it flew, 

When, swinging the steel axe in his hand. 

The head of the seeker sought the sand ; 

And so of the whole of the clamorous crowd 

Each nose like a coulter the green sward ploughed ; 

And from this day's ensanguined workery 

Arose man's guess of the uses of mercury — 

And it undoubtedly a palpable fact is. 

Ten medical colleges, all in full practice. 

With surgeons awaiting a chance to dissect you all. 

Could n't make mercury more effectual. 

Or cut men down quicker than Mercury packed his 

On this first day of " legitimate " practice. 

My friends, ye who read this fable so winning, 

Look for the moral at the beginning — 

For which, and the story, think just as you may of them, 

I have nothing more at present to say of them. 



ROBERT BURNS. 133 



EGBERT BURNS. 



How little we can see the end from the beginning ! 
Burns was born in a mnd cabin on the banks of the 
Doon, a hundred years ago, — a humble enough begin- 
ning, from which no higher future could be presumed 
through any entailed right, — and to-day the world unites 
in honoring the one who was then " the babe beneath 
the shieling," but whose song has since done so noble a 
work in humanizing man. On the centennial anniver- 
sary of the birthday of Robert Burns, wherever the 
English language is spoken, — and that embraces a very 
wide range, — men, imbued with a love of the manhood 
that inspired him, met to do honor to his memory. The 
high and the low, the learned and the unlearned, save 
in lessons of heart, combined in ovation to their favor- 
ite — their favorite so far as the feelings hold sway over 
the mere machinery of the brain, for Burns' cultivation 
was limited, and his song flowed, like " bonny Doon," 
undirected, save by the great voice of Nature that spoke 
to him from field and wayside, and brook and flower, 
and gave freshness and beauty to everything it ap- 
proached. 

It was necessary that he should be born poor. 
Like the mavis, he sprang from the dead flat of life, 
and rose to sing among the stars. His spirit was ever 
reaching far out into the spirit of the universe, and 
drinking in through its thousand fibres the life that 
filled it — that burned in his denunciation of wrong, 
scathed like the lightning in his satire, melted in his 
lays that had the human heart and the ingle side for their 
themes, or laughed in the songs that gushed under the 

inspiration of John Barleycorn. He was not divine ; 
12 



134 ROBEET BURNS. 

that is cherished as a glorious thought — for he is made 
our brother through his imperfection, and men love him 
for his humanity. There is no writer since Shakespeare 
that has lived so much in the sympathies of the people 
as Burns, and herein is the secret of his fame ; he was 
the poet of the common heart, which received him and 
prized him. He was a prophet, and, with thoughts a 
hundred years in advance of his time, he denounced 
wrong then in the ascendant, and the stigma attached 
to him that ever attends upon such ; but the years are 
doing him justice. The cloud becomes light in the 
admitted right of his prescience, and his frailties, " where 
nature stepped aside," are forgotten in the simple grand- 
eur of the truths he sung. 

The following was written for the Burns centenary 
celebration, at the Parker House, Boston, Jan. 25th, 
1859, and sung by a member of the Burns Club : 

WHAT 'S A' THE STEER? 

What 's a' tlie steer makin' ? what 's a' the steer? 

The Peasant Baud first saw the light this day a hunder year ; 

An' a' our hearts expand blithely — a' our hearts expand 

Wi' honor o' his name that 's known in every land ; 

For 'twas a blessed thing, surely, 'twas a blessed thing, 
Sin' a' the world was better for 't when Burns began to sing ; 
Sae we '11 raise our voices high, in tones of grandest cheer, 
That Rob the Rhtmer saw the light this day a hunder year ! 

His fame 's brawly won, nei'bor, his fame 's brawly won. 
An' a' the lan's unite to crown auld Scotia's gifted son ; 
They plait a laurel-wreath for him, — his weel achievit bays, — 
And bring rich offerings o' mind as tributes to his praise : 
For tho' o' humble birth, nei'bor, tho' o' humble birth. 
His genius gied him station wi' gentles o' the earth ; 
Sae we 're a' unco happy, and we '11 mak' a joyfu' steer. 
Sin' Rob the Poet saw the light this day a hunder year ! 



THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE. 135 

Tlie humble and the high, nei'bor, the humble and the high, 
Combine to glorify the bard "whose sang will never die ; 
In every clime 'tis heard wi' joy — in every gentle hame — 
An' sparkling een glow doubly bright at mention o' his name. 

0, he 's the puir man's friend, nei'bor ! he 's the puir man's friend. 
An' hoddin gray tak's honored rank, where worth its grace doth lend. 
There 's a blessin' on the hour that hands us captive here, 
For EoB THE Puir INIax's Bakd saw light this day a hunder year • 

Wide is his clan spreadin' — wide is his clan : 
They 're counted wheresoever men most nobly act the man ; 
Not where the tartans gleam, nei'bor, nor yet the bonnets blue. 
But where the heart is tender, and men are leal and true. 
'T is nae tie o' bluid, nei'bor, nae tie o' bluid, — 
His sangs unite the nations a' in ae braid britherhood ; 
Sae honor crown the time, and pang it fa' o' cheer. 
Sin' Burns the Ploughman Bard was born this day a hunder year ! 



THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE 

FOUNDED UPON A REAL INCIDENT. 

'T WAS the social hour of evening. 

And the ruddy fire gleamed bright, 
On the grateful tea-urn glancing. 

With a fond and loving light, 
When our happy circle gathered 

Round about the plenteous board. 
And those cheerful words were spoken 

That contented hearts afford ; 

And the little voices blended 

With the graver tones of love. 
And the blest domestic picture 

Forecast seemed of bliss above ; — 
Whilst thus at the table sitting. 

Heart and eye and tongue elate. 
Came a sound of some one rapping — 

Rapping softly at the gate. 



136 THE KNOCKING AT THE GATE. 

The bitter -wind witliout was howling, 

Kattling rude the window blind. 
And the frost upon the casement 

Many a witchy shape defined ; 
Whilst the snow in angry swirlings 

Darted by like figures white, 
Phantoms seeming, adding terror 

To the dreariness of night. 

Maggy then her form presented. 

And thus spoke she soft and mild : 
*' Please ye, very cold and hungry. 

Stands outside a little child, 
And for bread the poor thing 's askin; 

For the ones at home in need ; 
Shall I give her, may it please ye ? 

It win be a Christian deed." 

Then our little Mary whispered : 

" Tell me, what did Maggy say ? 
Tell me of the little beggar, — 

Tell me all about it, pray." 
Then we told her all the story — 

How some people wanted bread. 
And the fearful, tearful struggle 

Where pale famine reared its head, 

And she listened when we told her 

Of her own far happier state 
Than that of the little beggar 

Lately knocking at the gate ; 
Listened like a child, half heeding. 

To our dismal tale of woe — 
Gravely heard us to the ending, 

Eocking gently to and fro. 

Long she sat, and we, not noting 

Talked again of this and that, 
TiU sweet Mary, sadly sobbing. 

Waked us from our busy chat. 
*' What 's the matter, darling ? " asked we. 

And with trembling voice she said, 
" I was weeping at the story 

Of the child who wanted bread ! " 



MRS. PAETINGTON AND IKE. 137 

Then our hearts •were full of gladness, 

And our eyes were fall of tears, 
At the "words our darling uttered 

In this dawning of her years ; 
'T was the gush of heavenly pity 

That another's woe unsealed. 
And we gloried in the promise 

Its deep sympathy revealed. 



MRS. PARTINGTON AND IKE. 

" What is your mean temperature here, mem ? " said 
the meteorologist, as he sat in Mrs. Partington's little 
shaded back parlor, on a warm day, with the cool air 
drawing through the windows, and rustling the cut 
paper around the old looking-glass frame that had hung 
for so long a time on the wall. — " 3Iean temperature 1 " 
exclaimed she, with a sharp emphasis on the mean ; 
" mean temperature ! we have got no mean tempera- 
ture here, sir; nor mean people, neither, unless you 
may call Mr. Grab, the sheriff, one, who pretended he 
had an attachment for a man, and then went and took 
all his propriety on a mean process for debt. This was 
mean enough, goodness knows." — "I mean the tem- 
perature of the weather, I assure you," said the Hstener, 
dreading the indignation that gathered in her tone like 
distant thunder on the other side of a river ; " I mean 
what is your medium heat?" — -"Well," said she, " as 
for mediums, I don't know much about 'em, though 
there was a great heat about one that came here, that 
told people who their grandfathers was ; but it cooled 
off, arter a while. They could n't make me believe that. 
But, goodness me, look at that boy !" She pointed to 
Ike as she spoke, who had donned the hat of the visitor, 
12* 



138 COLD WEATHER. 

and was making a feint to attack the stove-pipe with his 
cane, having on his arm a large wash-boiler cover for a 
shield, and a pair of fierce moustaches painted in soot 
upon his upper lip. As they looked, a fierce lunge 
conquered the adversary, and the young hero stood 
triumphant, brandishing the cane in his hand, and shout- 
ing, " Down with the border ruffian ! " She checked him 
gently, and, as her visitor regained his hat and stick, 
which last had been broken, she turned to him, with 
much satisfaction in her manner, and asked if he did n't 
think the boy had talents by which he might " require 
a reputation ; " and the visitor said he certainly thought 
so. Ike knew what he meant, and kept a safe distance 
from the cane. 



COLD WEATHER. 



We sMver as we feel the biting air. 

And think more warmly of the ones who suffer. 
Counting how much of change we have to spare 

For those who wrestle with Old Frost, the buffer ; — 
Not he who aldermanic honors gained 

By public favor in the late election. 
But Jack Frost, who our comfort has profaned, 

And now assails the poor, who need protection. 
Depend upon 't, cold weather is the time 

To set our warm heart's blood in kindness flowing. 
To coin itself in many a ready dime. 

And make the loan the Scripture page is showing, 
For which a four-fold interest is given. 
Paid at the eternal banking-house in heaven I 



AN ANALOGY. 139 



AN ANALOGY. 

SHOWtNa A FANCIKD RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN A LITTLE STBJSAM OF WATER 

AND A LITTLE LITE. 

A GENTLE rill gushed from the breast of Spring, 
And flowed in beauty through the summer-land. 

Stealing along, just like some bashful thing. 
Half hidden by the boughs that o'er it spanned. 

But the wild blossoms in its mirrored sheen 
Beheld themselves in aU their rustic pride. 

And the tall trees assumed a brighter green 
Because they stood the little rill beside. 

So humble was it that the dallying grass 
Asked not the question whence the wanderer came, 

And the proud lilies, as they felt it pass. 
Looked down upon the stream of modest name. 

Yet tenderly the sweet rill loved the flowers. 
And the great trees that grew upon its brink ; 

It saved for them the bounty of the showers. 
And filled their empty cups with needed drink. 

It asked for no return ; unselfishly 

It moved, content that it was doing good 
Delighted fi.*om its ministry to see 

The gladness of a green beatitude. 

Anon a change came o'er the little stream, — 
The loving sun had claimed it for his own. 

And, like some fleeting picture in a dream. 
In aU its quiet beauty it had flown. 

The flowers grew sickly that had erewhile dwelt 

Upon its banks in queenliness of state. 
The sturdy trees its unlocked absence felt, 

The lilies withered, beautiful of late. 

The grasses sighed in sallow discontent. 
And all confessed the riU a friend most true. 

Contrite that its sweet life should thus be spent 
Before its loving offices they knew. 



140 NAHANT. 

'T is thus we 'ye seen some gentle loving one 
Noiselessly moving through the paths of life, 

Here cheering sadness with her voice's tone, 
There giving tears as mollients to strife ; 

Singing with bird-like sweetness on her way. 
From the outgushing of her teeming heart, 

As the airs "blow, or the bright waters play. 
Unknowing the blest influence they impart. 

We value not the blessing by our side 

Until, down-stricken by some fatal blight, 

"We feel it with our joy identified. 

And mourn the star now hidden from our sight. 

The noisy consequence of life may claim 
The tribute of attention at our hand, 

But 't is the little acts of humble name 

That make our hearts with blessedness expand. 



NAHANT. 



Nahant ! bold battler of the mighty sea. 

My harp would sound one note to swell thy glory , 
How much of health and beauty dwells in thee, 

Thou hard, solidified old promontory ! 
I rest me here, and feel thy breezes free 

Filling my ears with their enchanting story ; 
I hear the sea around me ceaselessly 

Curling about thy base its big waves hoary. 
0, beautiful ! I cry, delightedly. 

Here would I end my life so transitory. 
Climbing the rocks in plenitude of glee. 

Or catching mackerel in a little dory. 
Great is Nahant, by Neptune loved and Flora, — 
Esteemed by all, beside, whose bent is piscatory 



NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE. 141 

NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE. 

lilEKELT A LOCAIi ITEM. 

It is a strange title to a very strange story, which, I 
should not be willing to swear to the correctness of, if 
any one but myself had told it. But here is the tale, 
believe it or not. I am a remarkably sensitive man^ 
keenly alive to the beautiful in nature or art, — have in 
my lifetime gone miles out of my way to see a beauti- 
ful face, and a glimpse of some picturesque scene of 
sea or shore has driven me wild with delight. I had 
arrived in Boston from an old bachelor jaunt to the 
White Hills, solitary and alone. On such occasions I 
cannot bear to have any one with me. A voice dis- 
turbs me, and grates upon my nerves. I have turned 
almost hermit, and forsworn men, merely because a 
frivolous fool has cried out some commonplace exclam- 
ation upon viewing scenes that nothing but expressive 
silence could do justice to. An exception to this, how- 
ever, must be made in favor of the militia captain on 
Mount Washington, who, in delight at the sublimity of 
the scene before him, cried, " Attention, the universe ! " 
There must be an exception in this case, of course. 

I arrived in Boston, after an absence of some years 
from it, — almost a stranger in it, though I remembered 
Faneuil Hall, and the Old South, and the Old Province 
House, and the Old Jail, that stood where the Court- 
house was, and old " 101," where I had made my home 
for several years, in a retired up-stairs back room, that 
overlooked a large garden, and commanded a fine view 
of the country round about. Here I returned, and, by 
good luck, as I thought, engaged my former apartment, 
which the landlady informed me could be vacated for 
me immediately. I did not take possession till late in 



142. NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE. 

the evening, and reserved my first glance for the objects 
of my admiration for the morning, as soon as I should 
rise. I went to sleep dreaming of garden walks and 
summer-houses, and clustering blossoms, that formed 
the inner side of a wide horizon of beauty, which I 
gazed on with uninterrupted delight, when the clatter 
of a milkman's quart-pot upon a gate knocked me all 
awake in a moment, and I was conscious that it was 
morning, and the sun was shining in at my window. 

I immediately arose and dressed myself, when, plac- 
ing my chair close to the window, I drew aside the 
curtain. What ! the garden had disappeared, gone, 
and the beautiful scene which so long had gladdened 
me was obscured by a red, flaming brick wall, without a 
window in it, the back of a block of stores on another 
street. I reached out of the window and looked down 
upon a shed where I had in old times seen damsels, in 
the blush of youth and morning, hanging out clothes ; 
but the shed had disappeared, and a long brick L pro- 
truded in its stead, with a glass roof, beneath which I 
could see workmen in their shirt-sleeves moving to and 
fro. I fancied, in my first disappointment, that every- 
thing which I had regarded was swept away, and, hum- 
ming to myself some original lines, that just then 
occurred to me, beginning 

" 'Twas ever thus, from cMldliood's lioiir, 
I 've seen my fondest hopes decay," 

I was about closing the curtain, when I saw, through 
a little vista between the buildings, a beautiful view of 
a fair scene beyond, — clear sky, green trees, and dis- 
tance, — made more beautiful from the diflSculty through 
which it was seen. I thought I should become recon- 
ciled in a little while to the loss of the rest, could T 



NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE. 143 

retain this. Whenever I was in the house I took my 
station by my window, and enjoyed with miserly regard 
my huena vista. 

But "a change came o'er the spirit of my dream." I 
found one day a source of extreme nervous anxiety to 
me right in the way of my enjoyment. Some demon, 
with a special disposition to torment me, had leased a 
room in a corner of my vista — the proscenium-box, so 
to speak — to an unappreciative wretch, who, with a 
levity that deserved the thumb-screws, had placed a 
large bust of Shakespeare in the window, and put 
thereon a red shirt and black neck-cloth, and had 
covered the head with an old straw hat, making the 
great bard of Avon look as if he had just returned from 
some jolly bout in the harbor, or some deer-stealing 
operation in the country. I shut my window in dis- 
gust. The next day I looked. The bust was still 
there, with the addition of a black moustache. I 
dropped into a seat. The third day a large green patch 
was placed over one eye. The fourth day a hole had 
been made through the lips, and Shakespeare was 
actually smoking a long nine ! Shade of Sir Walter 
Raleigh ! but my blood boiled at the outrage upon 
me and upon Shakespeare. I tried to think of some 
remedy for the nuisance, and went out to reconnoitre 
the premises. I found there was a narrow alley lead- 
ing to the shed which formed the outer bound of the 
territory where my annoyance was placed, and that 
from this, with a moderately long stick, I could reach 
the hated object, push it from its position in the window, 
and dash it to pieces. My plan was formed, and that 
night I resolved it should be executed. 

About eleven o'clock that summer night, with Tar- 
quin's strides, and a footfall as light as a cat's, I was on 



144 NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE. 

my way to my revenge, armed with resolution and a 
long cane-pole that I had procured for the purpose. 
The .alley-way was dark^ which favored me, and I 
gained my destination without detection. A moment 
more and I stood on the shed, which commanded a view 
of the room in the open window of which my bane was 

resting. A moment more 

It was a warm night, and, as unpropitious fortune 
would have it, directly below the window where the 
bust was resting, the cook was sitting with her lover in 
the dark, talking preliminary matters incident to matri- 
mony. The oppressive heat had made them drowsy, 
and, leaning their heads upon the window-sill, they were 
both fast asleep. They had not heard my step upon the 
shed. Crash ! Down came the bust, red shirt, hat, and 
all, and planted itself directly between them ; and as the 
lover opened his eyes he was astonished to find a mas- 
culine form between him and his dear. His first im- 
pulse was carried out, to plump the figure betwixt the 
eyes ; his next was carried out with equal promptness, 
to let it alone — for his knuckles were hurt. At this 
instant he caught a view of the outline of my retiring 
figure, and, bounding through the window, he darted 
out of the shed-door, meeting me, as I descended, with a 
warm embrace and an energetic exclamation, which I 
construed into ^^ Watch ! " I was much gratified, 
besides, to hear the windows in the vicinity open, as if 
a public interest were awakening. Thanks to my 
science, I had muscle and strength, and here was a field 
for their operation. I used them with a will. I 
punched my adversary in the dark, and he was so busy 
in taking care of himself that he ceased to halloo for the 
watch. At this moment, a blow aimed at my head by 
the cook, who had emerged from the shed, took effect 



RE'S DANGEK IN THE TOAVN. 

^'^i^S^' *^^^ 1^°^^*' --« -- 

ther waut.s to talk to you b^fbre you go to 

tev^""'^'' ^'^°* ^'^^ °'^'iA'« tempestu- 

ji^ed^o^eryou fi-om infancy?!]! now you 

h*ir/^'* ^'"''''^ 3^°"- ^^ ^ "mother only can. 
love ^^'^^"^ I ^a^ve prayed the God 

Le"a1o^^S'^' ""^ darling boy to the bright 



e above. 

iVsJbt-^^'''''''^"^''-^" John-old age can't 
^ching'o'er an only child, to see if he does 
^ately I have seen what has aroused my 

■my piUow hard at night, and moistened 
ith tears. 

\i light within your eye, upon your cheek 

;me you are in the road that leads to shame 
woe; 

don't turn away your head and on mv 
isel trowu, ' 

upon the dear old farm— there's danger 
le town. " 

•Iv t£m?-i/.^ ^ro'ft'ius old; his days are 
; iaboredvery hard to save the farm for 

go to riiin soon, and poverty will frowni. 
p hitchmg Dobbin up to drive into the 

pects for the future are very bright, my 

have your start in life when they are 
ity-one; -^ 

that shines so brightly now, in darkness 

decline 

ret your mother's words and tarry at the 

again, my boy, in youth; stay bv the 
old farm ; ' 

)f Hosts \\-iU save you with his pov/erful 
arm; ^'-x^.u.i. 

'ill mother pilot you o'er life's tercipestu- 
Ivave; i'^'^i.ii 

her pathway with your love do^ra to the 
jt grave. 




TABECK ^ HA WS, 



Oifl series Vol. IX. 
Kew series. Vol. VI. 




,u can get a FAMILY GKOU 

uniil ati^ 

>§^^ Do not be Hambuged — but 
\ S.ui«iaction will be Guaranteed. I 

THE BEST miyih 

MADE I 



AiE6 O Ai)Vii.KTi8lJN; 



NUMBER ONE HUNDRED AND ONE. 145 

on his, and he rolled upon the ground, defeated, while 1 
hastened off. 

In a few minutes I was in my room. I looked out, 
and could see lights moving in the house I had just left, 
as if the garrison were aroused. I went to bed happy. 
My object was achieved. The next morning, to enjoy 
my triumph, I looked towards the hated window. My 
crest fell immediately, for there, upon the window- 
frame, was the bust of Shakespeare, with the red shirt 
still upon it ; but, instead of the old straw hat upon its 
head, my oivn Jiat, with my name in it, that, I forgot to 
say, I had left upon the field. 

The papers, the next day, were full of it, and refei- 
ence to the Columbian Centinel files for June, 1838, 
will show the following : 

Daring Outrage. — Last evening a burglarious at- 
tempt was made to enter the house of Mr. T. Speed, in 

street ; but the burglar threw down a bust of 

Shakespeare in the attempt, which attracted the attention 
of Mr. Muggins, passing at the time, who pursued the 
ruffian over a shed, and boldly attacked him in Marsh 
alley, when the villain drew a pistol and threatened to 
shoot his assailant, who persistingly stuck to him until 
a blow from the butt of the pistol knocked him down, 
and the rascal escaped, leaving his hat on the premises, 
in which was the name 0. Hush. Mr. Muggins treated 
him very severely, and it is believed the atrocious 
wretch may be detected by the injury he received. 
The police are upon his track. 

It had happened, fortunately, that I was to pay foi 
my accommodations by the quarter. The landlady was 
the only one who knew my name, and her reply to the 

18 



146 CONTENTMENT. 

questions with regard to it having been simply " Hush," 
it had been deemed that she wished to keep shady 
about the matter, and they had hushed. The old lady 
did not read the papers, and I was safe from her ; but 
I thought it advisable to leave that afternoon by stage 
for the mountains. Before leaving, I glanced from the 
window. The bust was still there, and it seemed that 
the features wore a malicious smile of satisfaction at 
my discomforture. I slammed the door to with a 
bang, and bade good-by to Number One Hundred and 
One. 



CONTENTMENT. 



There is no virtue like it tmder heaven, 

And he whose life is crowned with sweet content 
Is rich as though old Croesus' wealth were given. 

E'en though, in fact, he be not worth a cent. 
There is no hound to man's ambitious schemes : 

His eager palm outspreads as on he goes. 
Gold shimmers down through all his daily dreams. 

The verb '' to get" the only one he knows. 
How blest is he who, whate'er may betide, 

Sits smiling at the boon which fortune sends ; 
Who God's own finger has identified, 

And deems that all he suffers rightly tends ! 
And I myself am something of this stuflp. 
Always contented when I have enough. 



THE OLD PIANO. 147 



THE OLD PIANO. 

[The following lines are supposed to embody the feelings of one who stands amid the 
Treck of her ruined fortunes, and finds in the memories of the past a solace for the present. 
[t is not altogether a fancy sketch.] 

When the eyening falls around me. 

And my room is hushed and calm, 
Come to me long- vanished pleasures, — 

Come the wormwood and the balm ; • 

Loving faces smile upon me. 

Faces long beneath the mould. 
Loving lips mine own are pressing. 

Lips that long ago grew cold. 

0, the voices ! how they whisper ! 

And I strain my eager ear, 
Not to lose a word whose meaning 

All my spirit thrills to hear ; 
And amid tiie tones they utter. 

Weaving through them like a thread. 
Comes a strain of distant music. 

Echo of a strain long fled. 

From amid the brooding shadows. 

And the shapes that come and go. 
Hark ! the old piano murmurs 

With a note I dearly know ; 
And my soul in transport listens 

To the keys' familiar tone, 
As the shadowy fingers touch them 

With a love they erst have known. 

Joyful notes of sweetest meaning 

Tinkle in my wakeful brain. 
As upon the parching foliage 

Sounds the grateful summer rain ; 
Mournful notes of import tender 

Sighingly my heart receives. 
As amid the evening breezes 

Sighs the cadence of the leaves. 

'T was a phantom, — an illusion, — 

And the voices all have flown. 
Leaving me here desolated, 

In my widowhood alone 



148 IKE AT CHURCH. 

But the old piano lingers. 
And about its dreamy strings 

Rests the memory of fingers. 
And their pleasant utterings. 

Now it takes angelic seeming, 

Calling me, with hopeful voice. 
From the land where peace and gladness 

Through eternal hours rejoice ; 
And I feel the hand extended 

Of the loved ones gone before. 
Grasping mine amid the darkness, 

With the fervency of yore. 

How I love it ! — like a sister. 

Ever faithful by my side, 
Patient in my fallen fortunes. 

Loving in my hours of pride ; 
It is not to me insensate. 

And I 'm sure it feels with me, 
Sorrowing in my saddened moments. 

Laughing in my hours of glee. 

Blessings on thee, old piano ! 

While I live we ne'er shall part. 
For thy melody is woven 

With the pulses of my heart. 
Years may dim my mortal vision. 

And my raven hair turn gray, 
But my wasted life is blended 

With the thoughts that round thee stay. 



IKE AT CHURCH. 



" What do you tbink will become of you?" said Mrs. 
Partington to Ike, as they were going from church. 
The question related to the young gentleman's conduct 
in the church, where he had tipped over the cricket, 
peeped over the gallery, attracting the attention of a 
boy in the pew below, by dropping a pencil tied with a 
string upon his head, and had drawn a hideous picture 









J 




*0, laaac," continued she, earnestly 'what do jon want to act so like the 
pf<)l)i>b)e s<jn,for." P. l->». 



1 



SOUNDS OF THE SUMMER NIGHT. 149 

of a dog upon the snow-white cover of the best hymn- 
book. — "Where do you expect to go to?" It was a 
question that the youngster had never before had put 
to him quite so closely, and he said he did n't know, 
but thought he'd like to go up in a balloon. — "I'm 
afeard you '11 go down, if you don't mend your ways, 
rather than go up. You have been acting very bad in 
meeting," continued she, " and I declare I could hardly 
keep from boxing your ears right in the midst of the 
lethargy. You did n't pay no interest, and I lost all the 
thread of the sermon, through your tricks." — "I didn't 
take your thread," said Ike, who thought she alluded to 
the string by which the pencil was lowered upon the 
boy ; " that was a fishing-line." — " 0, Isaac," continued 
she, earnestly, " what do you want to act so like the 
probable son, for ? Why don't you try and be like 
David and Deuteronomy, that we read about, and act 
in a reprehensible manner?" The appeal was touching, 
and Ike was silent, thinking of the sling that David killed 
Goliath with and wondering if he couldn't make one. 



SOUNDS OF THE SUMMER NIGHT. 

The soft winds sigh atove the slumbering flowers. 

And tremble 'mid the tresses of the trees ; 
A child's sharp cry disturbs the solemn hours. 

That woman's voice endeavors to appease ; 
A dull piano's melancholy strains 

Fall faintly on my ear, borne from afar ; 
A night-key's click the midnight hush profanes. 

And harshly clangs a door's discordant jar ; 
A dog howls dismally across the way, 

Anon darts through the air a vengeful stone ; 
And sounds of whispered voices hither stray, 

Revealing lovers' vows by their soft tone ; 
Yon cat-calls cut discretion to the quick, — 
0, that kind fate would grant my hand a brick ! 



150 THE HOUSEHOLD SHADOW. 



THE HOUSEHOLD SHADOW. 

All felt badly when the little creature sickened. It 
was a fearful disease, and the burning skin and the 
labored breath spoke painfully of danger. The voice 
was hushed that uttered the word danger ^ and the heart 
was pained as the ear caught the fearful sound. Danger 
to the darling that love so clung to, and surrounded, 
and hemmed in ! and alarm awakened more vigilance, 
and more loving care. But day by day revealed the 
inroads of the insidious disease, burning at the founda- 
tion of the precious life ; and hope, that was at first 
strong in spite of fear, grew day by day weaker. How 
dear she grew ! — how much dearer than when in thb 
fulness of health and beautiful activity; when every 
impulse was a joyous outburst of conscious existence ; 
when her little arms entwined in fond conjunction with 
loving arms, and her tender kisses were rained upon 
ready lips, as the sacrifice of innocent love ! She seemed 
doubly dear; and the imploring look for aid, in par- 
oxysms of p&>in, sank deep into hearts rendered sad by 
a sense of inability to help. At last the crisis came. 
The shadow deepened with every moment, and hope 
grew less and less ; and, when the darlniess that comes 
before the light of morning rested upon the earth, 
another little spirit was added to the multitude that 
had gone before, like fruit untimely plucked. Then 
was the shadow most opaque and dismal, and the house- 
hold was very dreary. But anon the morning broke, 
and the sun came up; the gloom of night vanished from 
the clear heavens and the bright earth, and it was day. 
So with the shadow over the household. A voice came 
from the shadow, speaking peace to the saddened hearts. 
It spoke of love and trust, and gave sweet assurance 



CHARACTER. 151 

that it was no tyrant's hand that had smote tho house- 
hold, in the wilfuhiess of power; but that a loving 
Father had lifted up the lamb from the weakness and 
imperfection of human trust to the eternal fold, above 
the storms and sorrows and sins of time ; that behind 
the darkness of death shone the clear sun of eternal 
life, and that the morning would break, and the dreary 
shadows of the night, now obscuring its glory, would 
flee away ; that the loved within the veil were walking 
beside us in our darlniess, to bear us on and up, their 
loving hands still clasped in ours ! Then the household 
shadow changed, and ia holy light played around it; 
and, though it was still a shadow, and hid the loved 
from view, a trust born of faith said. It is well, and the 
stricken spirits bowed submissively to the will of Heaven. 



CHARACTER. 



" Depend upon it, madam," said the schoolmaster, 
" that, with a moral basis, men may risk themselves with 
any temptation, and come out triumphant." Mrs. Par- 
tington placed her hand gently on the cuff of his coat, 
and just three grains of snuff made their mark upon the 
broadcloth. " There 's where all the deficiency is," said 
she. " 'T is the moral baseness that does it, and tempt- 
ation melts 'em as the sun does the grafting-wax, and 
the buds don't take root, however strongly they may 
seem to be set, and they find, after all, as the best of 
us do, that we are none too good." The schoolmaster 
brushed off the snuff as she removed her hand ; but the 
lesson remained, as though her words had been India- 
ink, and her finger-points the needles that wrought them 
in enduring form upon the memory. Ike was engaged 
in twisting a fishing-line upon the big wheel. 



152 A LEAF FEOM A EECORD. 



A LEAF FROM A RECORD. 

I STOOD on Salem's wizard Mil, 

My sinking soul by terror daunted ; 
The summer wind blew strangely chill, 
My fluttering heart would not be still. 
Upon that upper land enchanted. 

I felt a Presence by my side — 

Old Roger Conant touched my shoulder : 
My heart sent back its rushing tide, 
As I that awful touch descried. 

And the cool breeze seemed growing colder. 

Then spake the Presence — not by word. 

But by what people call impression : 
My soul alone the language heard. 
For Roger's lips no moment stirred 
From long accustomed grave possession 

" I welcome you to this fair scene. 

Endowed with beauty, grace, and riches ; 
Few brighter spots than this, I ween, 
You '11 find our nation's bounds between. 
Yet this was once the hold of witches. 

" Around you dusky shadows glide 
Of those who made a bloody story • 

Yonder is Burroughs sanctified. 

With Mary Easty, grace denied. 
And here is sturdy old Giles Cory. 

" And angel Martha Cory 's nigh, — 
No saint in heaven's courts is sweeter, — 

With Alice Parker standing by ; 

And old George Jacobs here doth hie, 
With Margaret Scott and Ann Pudeater. 

'* The list is large, but not a whit 
Of anger now is felt among 'em ; 

And often round this hill they flit. 

Or here upon this summit sit, 
In friendship with the ones who swung 'em. 



A LEAF FROM A RECORD. 153 

" E'en now, my friend, Tvliile here we talk. 

Witch-hangers round among us gather : 
Yonder old Parson Paris stalks. 
And Justice Ilathorne hither walks. 

Locked arm in arm with Cotton Mather. 



" They carted them to Gallows Hill, 

Without a tear, or sigh, or blessing ; 
And then around, as I am still, 
I saw their cup of sorrow fill. 

But could not change their fate distressing. 

" And yonder were the locust-trees 

On which were seen their bodies swinging. 

While pious prayers from bended knees. 

And sacrifices God to appease. 
Rose from this spot, toward heaven winging. 

" You know, of course, the matter dark. 

For Upham 's told you all the story. 
And Poole's bright muse has made its mark. 
And 'lumed with wit's effulgent spark 

That page inscribed with letters gory. 

** But don't condemn those men severe, 
Nor by your bushel their grain measure ; 

As honest they to me appear 

As you in this enlightened year. 

Who knowledge, wealth, and power, treasure. 

" God's glory was their guiding aim, 

Much more than yours, who 've often spurned it ; 
And, though to you it seem a shame 
To kill a witch by cord or flame. 

The word was plain as they had learned it. 

" Please not a word — one single thought 

Annuls all cavilling and stricture : 
Those darksome times, with horror fraught. 
Round which such hideous tales are wrought. 

Are shadows to a glorious picture. 

" Your landscape were but tamely shown 
'Neath everlasting summer weather ; 



154 THE CABLE. 



Grand and effective 't is alone 
When contrasts in one field are thrown, — 
A beauteous whole when viewed together. 

*' The shadows are of darksome hue. 

Not fading out or evanescent ; 
And bright by contrast is the view 
Of beauties that the scene bestrew. 

That makes the picture of the present. 

" There 's Salem now, in beauteous guise, — 
It does my soul delight to mind it, — 

Shines fairer far to thoughtful eyes. 

As in its affluence there it lies. 
With sombre Gallows HiU behind it." 

The Presence clipped the spectral thread 

It garrulously had been spinning. 
When, nodding with its shadowy head. 
It turned about with shadowy tread. 
And left me there as at beginning. 



THE CABLE.* 



The earth is jubilant, and far and near, 

From widest east and west, and north and south. 
One note of great rejoicing do we hear — 

" The cable" is in everybody's mouth. 
*' Good will to men ! " — thus runs the golden line 

That thrilled the air o'er the Judean plains. 
That loses not its attribute divine. 

Though uttered in sub-oceanic strains. 
How strange it is ! and unbelieving sneers 

Die out in silence with the cynic's laugh. 
When warm hearts, throbbing in two hemispheres, 

Alingle their sympathies by telegraph ! 
The cable is the best egg ever made — 
No wonder all rejoice that it is laid. 

* A slight lay to the Atlantic cable ; — will answer for any future attempt. 



A PLEASANT STORY FOR JEALOUS 

PEOPLE. 

Little Mrs. Staples was one of the neatest, prettiest, 
and most sensible women in the world ; and she had a 
husband who loved her very dearly, and who strove by 
every means in his power to make her happy. But 
there was a lion in little Mrs. Staples' path, — a vora- 
cious and hungry lion, waiting at every step to de- 
stroy her. Not really to destroy her, but her domestic 
happiness, which is the hfe of a true woman. That lion 
was jealousy ; an insidious, lurking, and crafty monster, 
that Shakespeare endows with green eyes ; but of this 
I know nothing, deeming it, however, very probable, as 
cats have eyes of a greenish cast. She was jealous, and 
did not know it ; and was all the time conjuring up the 
queerest fancies about Staples, in which there was a 
chaotic blending of other lips and eyes and curls than 
her own, with no distinctness of arrangement ; mostly 
fancies, as indeed were sundry nods and winks, which 
that same blind horse. Fancy, detected and construed 
into positive kicks at the domestic peace of little Mrs. 
Staples. 

Little Mrs. Staples loved her husband, Jeremiah, with 
as much love as she had to bestow ; but it was not the 
love that so fills the heart as to crowd out all fear or 
doubt of the one beloved ; a love which would sacrifice 
even its own happiness, in order to secure the happi- 

(155) 



156 A PLEASANT STORY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 

ness of its object. Hers was no more unselfish than ia 
the love of nine-tenths of the world's people, which in- 
sists upon an equivalent for its sacrifices. But this is a 
point too nice for our present purpose, as we are only 
to deal with things just as they are ; and little Mrs. Sta- 
ples was jealous. Of whom ? Of no one in particular ; 
of woman-kind in general, I believe. Jeremiah could 
not speak of a female without an instant imagining of 
all possible things by the little woman, who, in her 
pride, deemed that her husband was such a fine-look- 
ing fellow that he had but to look at a woman, — the 
finest, grandest in the world, — and she was his, like a 
fly caught with molasses. He was, however, but an 
ordinary specimen of a man to look at, and was by no 
means a " lady's man," as the world understands the 
term. True he had many lady friends, and esteemed 
them for qualities of mind or soul that were congenial 
with his own ; but, so far from being objects of Mrs. 
Staples' jealousy, they were of a character to subdue 
such feeling in that estimable lady's heart, had she 
given them credit for like feelings of honesty and vir- 
tue with herself. But it is unfortunately the case with 
jealous people that the standard of virtue is raised 
very high by them, and they themselves come up to 
its requirements in the same degree that the suspected 
ones fall off. It was astonishing what trivial things 
would provoke whole chapters of theories in that little 
woman's brain. A ravelling of calico, a hair, a scrap of 
paper, anything was sufficient to hang a theory upon, 
which was speedily and satisfactorily prepared and laid 
away in some pigeon-hole of her mind for future refer- 
ence ; for little Mrs. Staples did not make much parade 
of her feelings, and, save an occasional spasm, when 
Jeremiah was away for an evening in a manner that 



A PLEASANT STORY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 157 

seemed mysterioTis, the domesticity of Jeremiah Staples 
was placid. But the theories laid away in the pigeon- 
holes must be brought out. 

" Who was that lady your husband was walking with, 
this afternoon, in Washington-street ? " said Mrs. Spigh 
to little Mrs. Staples, one day. 

" I am sure I don't know," said the little woman, cov- 
ering her face with her apron to hide her tears that 
suddenly gushed out, and sobbing as though her poor 
heart would break. 

" Well, I am sorry I asked," said the estimable Mrs. 
Spigh, who had the key to the happiness of the whole 
neighborhood in her possession, and judiciously dashed 
a sprinkling of discord around it, now and then, in order 
that people might remember that they were not in 
heaven, — a thing very likely to occur where her 
voice was heard. " I am really sorry I asked," contin- 
ued she, " since it affects you so ; but I always think it 
a favor if anybody '11 tell me when they see Spigh walk 
ing with anybody. I think it 's a duty we owe one 
another, Mrs. Staples, when men is so wicked and so 
inconstable. Mr. Staples was a walking with a light 
complected woman ; and she was a smiling on to him 
in a manner that I did n't think becoming, a bit. I even 
see her squeeze his arm in a manner that no decent 
woman would another woman's husband. But you are 
the patientiest woman alive." She went out with a 
tender and commiserating sigh. 

The apron had not been removed from the face, nor 
the weeping suspended, from the time when Mrs. Spigh 
went out and Jeremiah came in to his supper, and 
found it not ready. 

"Hallo!" said he, in a boisterously good-natured 

tone ; " what 's the matter, little wife ? What *s broke 
14 



158 A PLEASANT STORY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 

now ? What 's for supper ? " at the same time, play- 
fully trying to remove the apron from her head, evi- 
dently deeming it some sort of affectionate bo-peep, 
where he was to discover a pair of bright eyes laugh- 
ing out ujDon him, and a pair of soft, warm lips to bid 
him welcome, and seal the welcome with a kiss. 

No reply but a sob. The poor fellow felt badly, and 
asked, in a soothing tone, what was the matter. 

^^ Nun-nun-nun-nothing," came at length from beneath 
the apron, in a tone of the deepest grief; and then he 
knew that something was the matter, and resolutely 
took away the apron, and looked at the red, weeping 
eyes it concealed. 

"Now, wife,'' said he, "I insist on knowing what 
is the matter. Your sorrow pains me, and I want to 
relieve it." 

" Yes," said she, still sobbing, though speaking now 
Avith an - emotion of temper mingling with her quiet 
tones, " yes, you care — very much — for me — I dare 
say— when you can spend the time — away from me — 
in waiting upon — other women ! " The last two words 
were uttered with startling energy. 

"Ah," said he, smiling, "the wind sets in that quarter, 
does it ? My friend Mrs. Spigh has been here, has she ? 
I saw her, and thought she would come. Now, I have 
a great mind to torment you and that excellent neigh- 
bor into a fever, by not explaining anything; but, little 
wife, I love you too well to torment you, though you 
think I do not. Here^ wifey, is the cause of your 
trouble : my sister Jenny, from Illinois, the little girl 
who went away, — the beautiful woman who has come 
back. I got a despatch from New York, to meet her at 
the cars, and intended a joyful surprise for you ; and 



A PLEASANT STORY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 159 

now see what a scene you have made of it, — no sup- 
per, no welcome ! " 

^^ Yes, Jere dear, yes," cried she, springing up, and, 
in her joy, kissing her husband and his sister over and 
over again ; " yes, yes, a thousand welcomes, a thou- 
sand welcomes ! I was mad to doubt you, my dear Jere, 
— very mad. Please, dear sister Jenny, believe me, 
you are very, very welcome ! " She wrung her hand 
again, and kissed her again, and bustled about, in the 
cheerfulness of restored confidence, to get her evening 
meal, for the little wife did not know the luxury of a 
servant. 

" I came in to see," said Mrs. Spigh, opening the door 
very noiselessly and looking in, " if your husband has 
got home, Mrs. Staples, because I want to know if he 
has seen anything of my husband." She was evidently 
surprised, and appeared somewhat miserable, at finding 
her little neighbor so cheerful under her wrong ; and 
looked at her in a manner that said, " Well, you ^re the 
most cheerful martyr I ever saw." 

" You can ask husband, yourself," said Mrs. Staples, 
with her face radiant with the fire-light and the smile 
that played about it ; " and you will find him in the 
next room." She pointed to the little parlor, the door 
of which was snugly closed, and Mrs. Spigh softly 
entered, like a cat. 

No wonder she at first started back, for there upon 
the sofa was Jeremiah Staples, — the husband of little 
Mrs. Staples, the martyr now in the kitchen, — sitting 
upon the sofa, his arm about her waist, with the iden- 
tical "light-complected woman" she had seen with him 
in Washington-street ! And so shameless was he, that 
he didn't change his position on her entrance, and 
looked up with a brazen effrontery that in the eyes of 



160 A PLEASANT STOEY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 

that excellent neighbor was horrifying. Eecovering 
her speech, at last, she said, 

" Mr. Staples, have you seen my husband since 
dinner ? " 

" No, ma'am," said he, " I have not ; but some pry- 
ing, spying old woman has, perhaps, and may run in, by 
and by, to tell you where she has seen him." 

Mrs. Spigh passed away ; and the slamming of the 
outside door denoted an energy that was remarkable, 
which Mr. Staples smiled to hear. 

Mrs. Spigh moved from that sorrowing neighborhood 
with the wrong done her fresh in her mind, and refused 
to be reconciled ; and a whole year had elapsed with 
nothing transpiring to mar the tranquillity of the Sta- 
pleses. Jenny had gone again to Illinois, and little 
Mrs. Staples was left to her own domestic duties and 
reflections. 

There were no babies in the home of the Stapleses, 
though they would have been most welcome there; and 
there were times when a feeling akin to envy would 
awaken in the breast of the little woman, in her com- 
fortable home, as she thought of the homes of the poor, 
where the children were counted by pairs and by sev- 
ens, with misery and want for an inheritance. To add 
to this feeling, her husband never saw a pretty child 
about their door that he did not call it in and pet it ; 
and a visit to their house by any one with a baby, — 
and little Mrs. Staples had several married cousins, all 
proprietors of fat, chubby babies, with plump arms and 
legs, and ball-buttery cheeks, and putty noses, who were 
delighted to exhibit their pets on the pleasant days, — 
was a great occasion, and the Stapleses were in their 
glory, making it a matter of talk for days afterwards. 

Mrs. Staples, about this time, read the life of Jose- 



A PLEASANT STORY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 161 

phine; aDd she was struck very much with the resem- 
blauce between herself and that excellent personage ; 
likewise, the resemblance between Napoleon and her 
husband, though others might have waited a good while 
before they saw the likeness. It was all summed up 
in the fact that neither party had any children. Poor 
little Mrs. Staples once more began to imagine vain 
things ; again her husband's occasional absence from 
home looked mysterious ; again his clothes were 
watched for straggling threads ; again his pockets 
turned wrong side out for tell-tale papers ; again she 
became miserably jealous ! 

Poor Staples saw the change in her, and was unhappy. 
With no direct complaint from her, he could say noth- 
ing, and each day he watched the progress of the insid- 
ious disease that was preying upon her peace. One day 
she was out for a wallr, and thought she would call upon 
her husband at his room in Court-square ; for the name 
of Staples was borne upon a shingle in that locality, he 
being of the ancient fraternity of lawyers. Approach- 
ing his door through an ante-room, she was attracted 
by her husband's voice, saying, 

" I love her as dearly as ever man loved woman, and 
— " Here his voice fell to a murmur, and she heard no 
more of the sentence ; but heard a man's voice say. as 
if in reply, 

" Does your wife suspect anything about the child ? " 

Then her husband replied, 

" Not one word." 

She heard the sound of a subdued laugh, and heard 
no more; for she left as silently as she had entered, in 
a state of mind bordering on distraction. She had 
fallen by accident upon a secret that she would have 
given the world not to have become the recipient of 



162 A PLEASANT STOEY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 

She went through the streets unheeding anything or 
anybody ; until, nearing the street that led to her onco 
happy, but never more to be happy, home, she was 
arrested by the sound of her name, pronounced by a 
familiar voice, and her old neighbor, Mrs. Spigh, stood 
before her. 

" Why, I declare," said that estimable woman, without 
any particular reason for the declaration, '' if this is not 
Miss Staples ! I Ve been a great many times coming to 
see you, but somehow or other could n-'t make up my 
mind to, after Well, men are very curious. Miss Sta- 
ples. I hope you are happy. Are your children well ? 
0, 1 remember, you never had any. Well, well, some 
is n't blessed in that way. Rachel mourning for her 
children that would n't be comfited, you know, and 
that 's scriptur." 

Mrs. Spigh stopped, and poor little Mrs. Staples re- 
plied but generally to her, because her little heart was 
too full to admit of her spealdng. Mrs. Spigh contin- 
ued by her side, like a disagreeable shadow, to her own 
door, and, as she entered, the dark shadow entered with 
her. 

" I declare," said the shadow, " how natural it seems 
for me to be setting here ! I have n't been here since 

that night when the young woman — I mean since 

Well, well, 't is n't best to remember everything. For- 
get and forgive should be our motto, though we have 
many things to try us." 

Little Mrs. Staples fell into a chair, and, unhearing 
and uncaring for her visitor, went to crying as hard 
as she could, swinging her body backward and for- 
ward, and wringing her hands in the very bitterness 
of grief 

Mrs. Spigh looked on, with great benevolence in her 



x^LEASANT STORY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 163 

expression, as mucli as if she were exclaiming to her- 
self, " Ah ! poor soul, I know just how to pity you." 

" Is there anything I can do for you ? " said she, at- 
length. On being informed that there was not, she 
said, in a croaking tone : " TVell, well, it is, I suppose, 
our lot to suffer and obey. Our feelings may be out- 
ridged, but we must n't say nothing; our bosoms may 
be lacerated, but we must n't say nothing ; our firesides 
may be pervaded, but we must n't say nothing ; our 
moral sensibilities may be blasphemed, but we must n't 
say nothing. I suppose it is all right; and I don't 
want to arrange Providence by calling it wrong." 

She folded her hands meekly, and waited for little 
Mrs. Staples to " revulge " to her the secret woe that 
bowed her down. At last the salt grief became slightly 
acidulated by an infusion of Spigh, and an effervescence 
took place, bubbling up into words and sentences. 

'^ Jere ^s found some woman he loves better than 
me — " 

" Of course," said the attendant croaker. 

" And he has got a child hid somewheres — " 

" Yery probable," said the croaker. 

" I heard it this day from his own lips. ! that I 
had died before I heard it ! " 

The dear little woman ! How she sobbed and sobbed, 
and swayed backward and forward, and wrung her 
hands as she finished; and how the shadow fell upon her, 
as Mrs. Spigh, like a huge raven, moved here and there, 
croaking of the falsehood of man, and exhorting sub- 
mission to his tyranny, even though he indulged in all 
imagined departures from the virtuous limits to which 
they were by law circumscribed, as though it would be 
different were such restrictions removed ! She at last 
left her victim in a hopeful state, — had got her reduced 



164 A PLEASANT STOEY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 

to the calmness of despair, — with a promise that she 
would drop in the next day, and see how she did. 

It was a fearfully long afternoon to little Mrs. Staples, 
as she sat waiting for the return of her perfidious hus- 
band. So she called him, in her trouble. And there 
she sat, " nursing her grief," and thinking how she 
should meet the man who had so wronged her — with 
what expression she should greet him. She would 
show him a true specimen of womanly greatness ; 
would reproach him with his baseness, and then give 
him up to the sting of his own conscience. How calm 
she would be ! He should never suspect the bitterness 
that lay at her heart. She would tell him that she 
knew his secret, and then forgive him, and win him 
back by her generous love. Her own heart prompted 
this. She would keep the secret as an object of terror 
-for him in years to come, when she should cease to love 
Jiim, to reproach him withal, and make his life miser- 
able ! How she would taunt him about the baby, till 
he would cower before her glance, and bury his burn- 
ing face in his hands and cry for mercy. And luoidd 
she grant it? — she, the injured, the slighted, the con- 
temned, — would she? How she patted her little foot 
as she said this in her thoughts ! 

In the midst of her reflections the door softly opened, 
and, glancing her eyes upwards from the carpet, they 
met those of her husband, beaming on her with the 
light of a serene and sincere affection. 

Away with plans of action ! away with premeditated 
feeling ! The heart, if true, must act on its imme- 
diate impulse.. Starting to " her feet, little Mrs. Staples 
threw herself into her husband's arms ; but in an 
instant her wrongs crowded upon her, and, falling back 
upon the seat she had just left, she swooned away with 



A PLEASANT STORY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 165 

the pressure of conflicting feelings. When she recov- 
ered, she found herself on the bed, by the side of which 
her husband was tenderly watching. 

Poor little Mrs. Staples ! How pale she looked ! 
Recognizing her watcher, she took his hand, and told 
him that she did not think she should live (in a sweet, 
trembling voice) ; that she had, that day, become ac- 
quainted, by accident, with a momentous secret, and 
could not die in peace without imparting it to him. 
She had, she said, been near him when he had told his 
friend of his secret love, — as dear as ever man bore 
for woman, — and of the child, that she knew was to 
crown his life with a joy he so much craved ; but she 
felt that she could give him up, — (particularly as she 
herself was so soon to have no special need for him), — 
and begged of him to think of her when she was gone, 
as one that he had once loved, who would from the 
spheres still have an eye over him, in an angelic way, 
and seek for his happiness alone. No jealousy now 
tormented the dying little Mrs. Staples, so white and 
pale there amid the pillows. 

" And are you strong enough, my love," said he, with 
a grave smile on his face, that seemed strange at such a 
time ; " and are you able to hear the one named that I 
love so strongly, of whom I was speaking when you 
overheard me telling my friend Badger ? Are you ? " 

She assured him she was able ; and her face assumed 
a flush with much more of life than death in it, as she 
spoke. He took her hand and held it a moment to his 
breast. 

" Then listen," said he. " I was telling my friend of 
a little jealous and unhappy woman, that was torment- 
ing herself to death on my account, at home, whom I 
loved very dearly, but who would not believe it ; and 



166 A PLEASANT STOEY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 

then I told him of a great scheme of mine for winning 
her to faith in me by a gift, — the most strange that 
ever entered the heart of man to procure, — and which 
— (Mr. Badger, please step here a moment) — ■ is ready 
to be presented to you.'' 

He hid her eyes with his hands as the door opened, 
and when she could see, the room was lighted, and a 
woman and a man stood by her bedside, and the woman 
bore something on her arm, nicely hidden, which, on 
being uncovered, revealed the features of a plump and 
beautiful babe. 

" Here," said Mr. Badger, " is a present that I was 
deputized to give you. This is the mother, who freely 
resigns it, under writing, to your loving care, its father 
being dead. Take it, my dear madam, alid may it long 
live to bless and comfort you ! " 

" And my blessing goes with it," said the woman, 
tenderly kissing it ; " and I know my darling Eose is in 
hands where no mother's care wiU be missed. God 
bless you, my dear madam; and if ever I come this 
way again, may I look upon her sweet face once more ? 
though I '11 never tell her who was her mother, and 
shall cry to look at her." 

There never was such a time about the bedside of a 
dying woman, and no dying woman overbad interest in 
life more suddenly renewed. Little Mrs. Staples rose 
from her bed, and her first duty was to throw her arms 
around her husband's neck, begging his forgiveness for 
doubting his truth, and promising him she never would 
do so again, like a school-girl. Then she. took the baby 
in her arms, and kissed it over and over ^gain, and 
admired its fingers, and its toes, and its eyes, and its 
nose, and thought there never was such a sweet baby 



A PLEASANT STORY FOR JEALOUS PEOPLE. 167 

born, vowing to love it dearly, and hugged it in such a 
way that the mother was quite affected. 

It was quite a young baby; and, as so few were in the 
secret, it was deemed to be a matter of the quietest and 
slyest scheming in the world, to have the baby pass as 
a genuine home production, and so it was resolved. 
The next day it was announced that Mr. Staples was 
the possessor of a bran-new baby. A girl was em- 
ployed, and the mother installed as nurse until such 
time as little Mrs. Staples should get the hang of the 
thing. The milkman was surprised to be told that he 
must not make a noise, because he would disturb the 
baby. So with the butcher ; and an order left for oat- 
meal at the grocer's was brought over by the grocer 
himself, who was a family man, and did n't quite believe 
the obscure hint that Staples had thrown out, about 
some folks having babies as well as some folks. So it 
went on, and every one expressed astonishment that no 
one had ever suspected anything about it, coming to 
the conclusion, however, that everything was just as it 
should be, and they were glad of it. 

In the afternoon Mrs. Spigh was surprised to have 
her summons at the bell responded to by a servant-girl, 
and was thunderstruck, speaking figuratively, to hear 
the reply to her inquiry for little Mrs. Staples, that she 
was up stairs with the baby. 

" Whose baby?" said that sympathizing female, in a 
tone of great wonder. 

" Her'n, ma'am ; come last night, ma'am," replied the 
domestic. 

"Poor creatur!" cried she;, "more sorror, more 
sorror ! Well, our backs are fitted to our burdens. 
Tell her, young woman, that Mrs. Spigh is here, and 
would like to sympathize with her." 



168 A COURTING EEMINISCENCE. 

The domestic went as directed. 

" A baby ! " said that lady to herself. " I wonder if 
any accident happened; I hope it isn't deformed^ or 
anything, though it must be a poor unhappy creatur' ; 
I hope it won't be punished for its father's wickedness 
to the fourth generation — " 

Her reflections were cut short by the return of the 
servant, who assured Mrs. Spigh that her mistress was 
grateful for her sympathy, but that Mr. Staples, who was 
up stairs, thought she had better bestow all she had 
somewhere else. 

" Ah, that poor creatur' ! " said she, as she went out ; 
" how she must suffer with such a brute of a man ! " 

In due time little Rose was passed round for inspec- 
tion, and never in the vounds of Babydom had such 
another been seen. Some shook their heads, and some 
remarked, " How old-fashioned ! " but it was Staples' 
baby, and it became an immense favorite. The mother 
never returned, having married in California. 

There was no more jealousy in the home of the 
Stapleses. The baby was a bond of union between them 
that never relaxed its power ; and though it was but a 
little plant from another parterre, it was loved none the 
less. 



A COURTINa KEMINISCENCE 

My brow is seamed o'er witli the iron of years. 

And the snow-threads are gleaming the dark locks among 
My eyes have grown dim in the shadow of tears, 

And the flowers of my soul have died as they sprung ; 
But Memory bears to me on its broad wings 

Bright images true of my earliest life. 
And there, 'mid the fairest of all that she brings. 

Is the little low room where I courted my wife. 



A COURTING REMINISCENCL. 169 

Tliat low liumble room seemed a palace of light. 

As Love held his torch and illumined the scene, 
With glory of state and profusion bedight, 

Where I was a monarch — my darling a queen ; 
Ourselves were our subjects, pledged loyal to each, 

And which should love best was our heartiest strife ; 
What tales could it tell, if possessing a speech, 

That little low room where I courted my wife ! 

Warm vows has it heard — the warmest e'er spoke — 

Where lips have met lips in holy embrace, 
Where feelings that never to utterance woke 

It saw oft revealed in a duplicate face ! 
The sweet hours hastened — how quickly they flew ! — 

With fervor, devotion, and ecstasy rife ; 
Our hearts throbbed the hours — but how I ne'er knew~- 

In the little low room where I courted my wife. 

The romance of youth lent its rapturous zest. 

And fairy-land knew no delight like our own ; 
Our words were but few, yet they were the best, — 

A dialect sweet for ourselves all alone ; 
So anxious to hear what the other might say. 

We scarcely could utter a word, for our life ; 
Thus the hours unheeded passed fleetly away 

In the little low room where I courted my wife. 

Long years have since passed o'er my darling and me^ 

And the roses have faded away from her cheek. 
But the merciless seasons, as onward they flee. 

Leave love still undimmed in her bosom so meek ; 
That love is the light to my faltering feet, 

My comfort in moments with sorrowing rife. 
My blessing in joy, as with joy 't was replete 

In the little low room where I courted my wife. 
15 



170 FIDGETY PEOPLE. 

FIDGETY PEOPLE. 

Theee is a large class of people who, like electrical 
eels, are always on the jump; who seem so charged 
with electricity that it appears but necessary to apply 
the knuckle to one of their elbows to elicit a shock. 
Indeed, it has been proved, in the experience of many, 
especially where the battery was a female, that the 
shock has instantly followed the touch, either in the 
form of a concussion on the ribs, or a sensation upon 
the cheek, attended with sparks from the eyes. As a 
class, fidgety people, enjoying no peace themselves, are 
unwilling others should experience any, and, through 
teasing and fretfulness, see their most fidgety disposi- 
tion gratified. A noisy foot upon a stair, a voice not 
tuned to the fidgety pitch, a dress a thousandth part of 
an inch awry, a stray hair escaped from its fastening, 
and ten thousand other things equally trivial, will excite 
the battery, and fidgets will ensue, revealing themselves 
in many unhappy explosions of temper. The fidgety 
are not confined to the female part of humanity ] — the 
masculine has its share. This need not be told, as so 
many instances are to be seen. We knew a man change 
his place of worship from an Orthodox to a Unitarian 
church, because there Avas an angle in the wall that was 
not true, — the fidgets coming upon him every time he 
looked at it, and he could not enjoy the sermons ; and 
another, too conscientious to change, who kept at home 
altogether, because the minister tied his neckerchief in 
a granny-knot. Some cannot remain still a moment, 
but spend their lives in very busily doing nothing, or 
undoing what they have done, like poor little Luke 
West, in his transposition of chairs upon the stage. 
They are always changing pictures, or clearing up or 



THE PHILISTINES BE UPON THEE. 171 

moving round ; coming out, in the end, just about where 
they started from. This class are unhappy to see a hat 
hung on a wrong peg, a scrap of paper as big as a pea 
on the floor, or a door ajar ; and fret in most miserable 
discontent, exciting the same feelings in others, be- 
cause they are not understood. It takes everybody 
to make a world,* and this doctrine we are growing 
more and more to believe, every day. Pidgety people 
are, doubtless, designed, if regarded rightly, to quicken 
the torpidity of negative people, who otherwise might 
simply vegetate. They are vitalizers, and should not 
only be tolerated, but welcomed ; and, instead of being 
unhappy in contact with them, we should note the effect 
of their fidgeting as we would the effect of a galvanic 
battery, and cry, admiringly, " What a nice shock that 
was ! -' and feel, in our quickened blood, instead of 
anger, that it had done us good. 



THE PHILISTINES BE UPON THEE. 

WmuE bound by Pleasure's flowery chains. 

Our souls in guilty dalliance lie, 
Listing the enervating strains 

On wanton winds that wander by ; 
Weakened by dull, luxurious ease, 

Temptation finds us easy prey. 
And, some Delilah sin to please, 

We drive our better selves away 

'Tis then that Conscionce, in our need, 

Cries out, in accents loud and clear, 
The foe is on thee — arm with speed ! — 

And well if we its warning hear. 
The donnant soul shakes off its chains, 

And, once more disenthralled and free. 
Over luxurious Sin obtains. 

By Virtue's might, the mastery. 



172 MRS. PARTINGTON AND THE TELEGRAPH. 

MRS. PARTINGTON ON INTEMPERANCE. 

" Intemperance !" said Mrs. Partington, solemnly, witli 
a rich emotion in her tone, like an after-dinner speech, 
at the same time bringing her hand, containing the 
snuff she had just brought from the box, down upon 
her knee, while Lion, with a violent sneeze, walked 
away to another part of the room, — " Intemperance is a 
monster with a good many heads, and creeps into the 
bosoms of families like any conda or an allegator, and 
destroys its peace and happiness forever. But, thank 
Heaven ! a new Erie has dawned on the world, and 
soon the hydrant-headed monster will be overturned. 
Is n't it strange that men will put enemies into their 
mouths to steal away their heads?" — "Don't you re- 
gard taking snuff a vice ?" one asked, innocently. — " If 
it is," she replied, with the same old argument, " it is so 
small a one that Providence won't take no notice of it ; 
and, besides, my oil-factories would miss it so." Ah ! 
kind old heart, the drunkard's argument ! He who 
casts stones at his frail brother must first see if there 
be not something at home to correct, before he pre- 
sumes upon his own infallibility. Ike all the while was 
watching Lion, as he lay growling in his sleep, and 
wondering if he was dreaming about him. 



MRS. PARTINGTON AND THE TELEGRAPH. 

" The line is down ! " shouted Ike, as he swung open 
the front-door. Mrs. Partington, thinking he meant the 
clothes-line in the back-yard, darted to the window, but 
everything was right. The night-caps swung to and fro 
by their strings, the dresses waved their long arms in 
the winds, and Ike's galligaskins, inflated by the breeze, 
seemed struggling to be free. — "You should not tell 



GREAT AND LITTLE STRUGGLES. 173 

sTicli wrong stories, dear/' said she, " when there is no 
occasion for it. The line is not down." — '^ I meant the 
Atlantic Telegraph line," said he, w^ith a face expressive 
of the joy of both hemispheres ; " and Queen Yictoria 
is going to send it to President Buchanan." — " She is, 
is she ? " said the old lady. " Well, that is very kind in 
her. I wonder if she will prepay the postage before- 
hand in advance." — " It is n't a letter," cried he ; '^ it is 
a cable under the water from one country to the other, 
over which messages can be sent." — "I don't believe it 
can be done," said she ; " for how can the messages come 
without getting satiated with water?" — "I guess they'll 
be wrapped up in gutta-percha," replied Ike. — "Maybe 
so," said the dame, thoughtfully, ^^ maybe so, but it would 
be a good deal safer to send 'em by the steamer ; for 
what if they should get stuck half-way ? " She pon- 
dered on it, and did not see that Ike had tied her ball of 
yarn to the tongue of the bell, and was even then in a 
remote -position, preparing to send messages of mischief, 
that would call her repeatedly to the door. 



GREAT AND LITTLE STRUGGLES. 

We speak of struggles in tlae field of life, 

Where men and -women make a rusk to Tvin, 
And in the higger ones who urge the strife 

We overlook the lesser that " go in." 
The gallant Havelock on the Eastern field, 

Or Halley tracking comets through the sky, 
Or Morse, whose fame in lightning lines is sealed. 

Or Webster, whose great name can never die, — 
These claim our homage ; but those are as great 

Who in a smaller way embark their soul. 
Who wrestle with the purposes of Fate, 

To sink, perhaps, or triumph in the whole. 
A mighty instance now occurs to me — 
A small boy wrestling with his A, B, C. 
15* 



174 DIED OF CKAMP. 

DIED OF CRAMP. 

It is a fearful thing to be stricken down, alone and 
unattended, when our last hour comes — without a sigh 
from loving lips to prove that we wdll be regretted 
when we are gone, and to assure us that our life has 
not been spent in vain, when tender ones can breathe a 
blessing on our exit. This truth found poor Peasly, in 
the cholera-time, moving one evening towards home, 
pondering upon the chances of his being called away in 
the midst of his usefulness, his young Avife a widow, 
with good prospect of being married again before he 
had been dead six months. The night was dark, and 
his mind was as dark as the night was, as he moved 
along, turning these things over in deep reflection, and 
wondering if lobster-salad was wholesome in cholera- 
time; for he had just partaken of a dish of that delicious 
preparation, and was conscious of an uneasiness in the 
epigastric region. He had taken the precaution ad- 
vised by the " Baron," to " soften the hostility " of the 
salad by a suflSciency of Sauterne, or some other fluid, 
and was surprised that it affected him so. He felt 
uneasy in his mind about it. But he remembered the 
tales he had heard where cheerfulness was a repel- 
lant of cholera influences, and of the effects of dismal 
thoughts inducing the dreaded disease, and he attempted 
to whistle a cheerful tune. It was a failure. His whistle 
sounded more like that heard in winter at some cranny 
in an old barn, at night, when the witches are about, 
and children hide their heads under the bed-clothes for 
fear ! 

Groing through Union-street towards the North End, 
where he resided, he met one of his old friends. 

" Lots of cholera down your way, eh, Peasly ? " said 



DIED OF CHAMP. 175 

the friend. ^^The Mayor's been a overhauling Spear 
Place, and found it brim full." 

He looked at Peasly by the gas-light, and saw that he 
was pale and unhappj''. 

" What 's the matter ? " asked he. 

" I don't feel exactly right," said he ; "I — I guess it 
is n't much, though. I 've been eating lobster-salad." 

" Bad stuff in cholera-times," said the friend. " You 
know old Timberly, up by Fort Hill? — well, he eat two 
lobster-claws, day before yesterday about noon, and 
next morning he was dead as General Jackson. Good- 
night." 

And the friend was off. 

Peasly felt worse ; and, whistle as he might, — and he 
attempted another tune, — the pain increased, as he did 
his pace. 

'^ Ah, Peasly, my boy, how are ye ? " said Styles, the 
policeman, as he saw him scudding along, with his hand 
upon his waistcoat. 

^' Pretty well," replied Peasly, with an effort. 

" Glad of it," said Styles, " glad of it. Great times, 
these. Cholera's all round your neighborhood. Seven 
carted away this afternoon." 

" Anybody that I know ? " gasped Peasly. 

" Why, there 's the Widow Spruce, and Jo Bart, and 
Uncle Frye, and the rest I didn't know. Don't you 
think that Frye was fool enough to gorge himself with 
lobster-salad, and then wash it down with brandy. Con- 
founded fool, was n't he ? " 

" Perhaps so," said poor Peasly, taking hold of his 
waistcoat with redoubled force ; " but is it generally so 
bad?" 

" Bad ! " said Styles, looking earnestly into Peasly 's 
eyes, and, seeing the sweat standing in globules upon 



176 DIED OF CEAMP. 

his face, and his hps as white as ashes, determining to 
guy him ; " bad ! you have n't seen the proclamation 
about lobsters, made on the recommendation of Doctor 
Smith, to have every one thrown into the dock, and 
the men prosecuted for selling of 'em? 'Twas sent 
down to the watch-house to-night. Smith says they 're 
rank pisen, — red cholerys, every one of 'em." 

How the pain took hold of Peasly, as the policeman 
moved on ! Down the street a crowd of people at- 
tracted his attention, and for a moment he stopped to 
ascertain the cause. 

" What 's the matter ? " asked Peasly of a bystander. 

" It 's a feller that was picked up on the wharf, sir," 
was the reply. " Guess he 's got the cholery ; been 
eating lobster." 

Mr. Peasly ran from the scene towards his home, and 
never had that spot appeared so sacred to his fancy as 
at that particular juncture. He had got within a few 
doors of his haven, when he met a man coming down 
the street with a lobster under each arm, from which he 
was breaking the claws and sucking them. 

^' He 's a goner," said Peasly to himself, as an extra 
pain made him almost cry out with its acuteness ; " and 
I 'm afraid that I am." 

Mr. Peasly reached his door, a wretched man; but he 
was at Jiome. Here he could find consolation and pep- 
permint-tea. Here he could have the hand of sympathy 
held out to soothe his brow, or to drop laudanum for 
his infirmity. With a strong hand he pulled the door- 
bell, when, overcome, he sank upon the door-step. No 
one came at the summons, and, rising up, he gave 
another pull, and sat down again. 

A window in the next house opened, and a female 
voice was heard telling Mr. Peasly of the fact that his 



DIED OF CRAMP. 177 

wife had gone to a religious meeting in the Bethel, and 
would n't be back till ten o'clock, and it was now but 
half-past eight. Wretched Peasly ! An hour and a 
half betwixt him and peppermint-tea, and he dying of 
cholera ! The reflection broke the back of the little 
resolution he had left. 

He fancied to himself the trouble that would arise in 
finding out how he had died, — for he knew he was 
dying, — and, taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, he 
wrote on the door, in legible characters, " Died of 
Cram'p^'' and became insensible. 

His wife arrived home sooner than she anticipated, 
and found him still lying there. One of the brethren 
who came home with her helped get him into the house, 
where he was plied with proper applications, but was 
not fully restored till the next day, when he found his 
pain all gone, and a wonderful appetite possessing him. 

" What have you got in the house to eat, wife ? " said 
he, putting his right foot out of bed; ^^ I think I could 
eat a little something — something that's delicate, you 
know." 

" I have," said she, smiling, " something that will 
please you. I have bought a nice large lobster, and 
am going to make a lobster-salad for you." 

Poor Peasly ! He fell back upon the bed and re- 
lapsed again into forgetfulness. It was three weeks 
before he recovered, and all the time he was sick 
people marvelled at the strange inscription upon his 
door, '■'•Died of Cramp.''^ It was only owing to a strong 
constitution and proper appliances that it was not 
true. 

Peasly, to this day, has n't the courage to look at a 
lobster. His sensibility is so acute that he can smell 
lobsters three squares off, and thus is enabled to avoid 



178 COSMETICS. 

them. He refused a sergeant's warrant in the Boston 
Fusileers because they wore red coats, and the mention 
of lobster gives him the horrors for days thereafter. 



COSMETICS. 



" That 's a new article for beautifying the complex- 
ion/' said Mr.^ Bib; holding up a small bottle for Mrs. 
Partington to look at. She looked up from toeing out 
a woollen sock for Ike, and took the bottle in her hand. 
— " Is it, indeed ? " said she ; " well, they may get up 
ever so many of these rostrums for beautifying the 
complexion, but, depend upon it, the less people have 
to do with bottles for it the better. My neighbor, Mrs. 
Blotch, has been using a bottle a good many years for 
her complexion, and her nose looks like a rupti^re of 
Mount "Vociferous, with the burning lather running all 
over the contagious territory. You 'd better not try 
the bottle as a beautifier, Mr. Bib." Mr. Bib, with a 
smile, informed her that this was simply a cosmetic, 
harmless in its character, and intended to go upon 
the face, and not inside it ; whereupon she subsided 
into the toe of Ike's stocking, murmuring something 
about " leaking in." Ike, in the mean while, was 
amusing himself by rigging a martingale on Lion's tail, 
securing that waggish member to his collar, and making 
him look as if he was scudding before the wind. 



A TALE WITH A MORAL. 179 



A TALE WITH A MORAL- 

In Thessaly, off in the ages dim, 
Apuleius the author, queer in his ■whim. 
Went to board with a female grim, 

A sort of a Tvitch, 

Considered as sich. 
Who in Tophet's necromancy was rich. 

Now, she had the power 

To change in an hour 
A man to a bird, or a beast, or a flower; 

And Apuleius he 

Took the wild idee 
That he a beautiful birdling would be ! — 

He would sail through ether 

As light as a feather. 
And sing 'mid the trees in summer weather. 
And the finest fruits and flowers would gather ! — 
! how he 'd revel in exquisite things. 
And the dew of the morning shotdd shine on his wings • 
He 'd be richer than Jews, and prouder than kings ! 

This mighty change. 

That was deemed so strange. 
Was wrought by ointments' subtle force, 

And, rightly applied 

To his outer side, 
A man became bird, flower, or horse. 
Or anything else that his fancy chose. 
To sport in feathers, or hair, or clothes : 

But this one care 

They in mind must bear. 
Who used these wondrous ointments rare, — 

To mind from which pot 

The salve they got. 
And well it was that they should beware ; 
For each was applied to a difierent use. 
And a change might play the particular deuce, 

Transforming one. 

As sure as a gun. 
From a would-be dove, perhaps, to a goose '. 
Apuleius the author would be a bird, 
But how to procure the witch's charm ? 



180 A TALE WITH A MORAL. 

A lucky thought his cranium stirred — 

He 'd tickle her servant's itching palm ; 
A proof that wielders of the pen 
Were somewhat flush with " the ready " then. 
So the servant was sought. 
And her services bought, 
And the magical charm was straightway brought. 
For the servant in such exploits was adept. 
And prigged the salve while her mistress slept ; 
Concerning which, we, in our brighter light. 
Should say it was n't salving her right ! 
Apuleius happy now was made. 
And scarcely a single moment delayed. 
And his heart beat high 
As the hour drew nigh 
To open to him the doors of the sky, 
When he 'd spread his wings and thitherward fly. 
So elated his thought. 
He the caution forgot, 
And didn't even look at the pot ; 
Till too soon, alas ! the unfortunate elf 
Discovered he 'd made an ass of himself ! 
Not much of a wonder, some might say, 
When such things happen now every day 
The witch discovered the theft, and, alack ! 
She " played the deuce and turned up Jack," — 
She straightway decreed 
That he ne'er should be freed 
Till he found some rose-leaves on which to feed 
And a sad decree 
It was for he, 
For there were n't any roses in Thessaly, 
And therefore the ridiculous ass 
Was brought to a very unfortunate pass. 
From land to land, and from clime to clime 
He wandered on for a weary time. 
Braying — but whether in prose or rhyme. 

Is not by the history stated ; — 
And instead of flying in upper air. 
He cropped the thistles here and there, 
Seeking for roses everywhere. 

But was long uncompensated. 



ELECTRO-CHEMICAL BATHS. 181 

At last Apuleius, tlie long-eared, found 
A rose-tree on liis sorroTving round. 
And, blessed release ! all right and sound, 
He stood erect once more on the ground, 
A happy fellow, we may be bound, — 

And from it we draw this moral : 
We should always be content with our lot. 
Nor wish to be birds and things we are not, 

And never with Fortune quarrel. 
Lest we prove ourselves to be asses, at best, 
By action more than by ears confest, 
Braying along, nor knowing rest. 
And seeking rose-leaves east and west. 

To find but thistles and sorrel. 



ELECTRO-CHEMICAL BATHS. 

" This is a great discovery; to be sure/' said Mrs. 
Partington, with animation ; " when a person who has 
experienced salvation, through calumny and all sorts of 
pisenous - grediences, can have ifc soaked out of 'em." 
We asked what she meant, and looked at her as she sat 
in meditation and the little low chair in the corner, re- 
volving the idea, which pressed upon her brain like a 
weight of steam two hundred and fifty pounds to the 
square inch. " Why," said she, smiling like the moon 
with reflection, " there is a contrivance for soaking a 
man who has taken calumny and minerals all his life- 
time, till his joints are stilBf as wooden legs in the last 
war ; and when he comes out of the bath, and wipes 
himself with a hacmetac towl, he has n't a single mineral 
in him, — he is a perfect vegetable, as limber as an 
eel ! " What a gratified look it was she gave, as an 
imaginary procession of cripples, the victims of calomel, 
passed before her mind's eye, like the spirits of Kos- 
suth's countrymen, as she thought of their leaping, all 
16 



182 TRUE COUEAGE. 

cured; from the bath! though she shut her oyes just 
then, and Ike stole away during her abstractiouj and 
was seen a moment after peeping round the corner at 
the ancient priestess of Pomona, who sells apples op- 
posite, thinking what a fine thing it would be if a cart 
should come down and capsize her table. 



TRUE COUEAGE 



*^ Some men are more courageous than others, and 
some an't," said Mrs. Partington, as the conversation 
turned upon heroic deeds. She was the widow of a 
corporal of the " last war," and her estimate of heroic 
deeds, as may be supposed, was based upon a thorough 
knowledge of what those deeds were. ^^ Some will go 
to the Chimera to exercise feats of arms, and some will 
exercise their feats of legs by coming away. It needs 
more courage to face danger in the dark — to be waked 
up in the night by the howling salvages, with their tom- 
myhawks and scalpel-knives, or to hear midnight buglars 
breaking into your house, or, like the lady who waked 
up in the night and found a big nigger man standing 
right horizontally by the side of her bed. It takes 
great, great courage to meet such things, depend upon 
it." The blood mantled to her cheek, like the hue of a 
damask rose-bush in bloom on the side of a yellow- 
painted house ; heroism sat behind her spectacle-bows, 
and peeped out of the glasses ; while Ike was engaged 
in putting a clean paper dicky and a black cravat upon 
a " marble bust of Pallas," just forninst our closet-door, 
— only this, and nothing more 



MY GRANDMOTHER. 183 



MY GRANDMOTHER. 

That old chair, painted black, with the new bottom 
of some sort of mysterious cloth, provided by the up- 
holsterer, was the property of my grandmother, — 

" Dear old lady, slie is dead 
Long ago," — 

a gift from her mother, when she was married. It is a 
queer old straight-backed affair, and I remember it, all my 
lifetime, as the " Easy-Chair," though a more positive 
misnomer never could have been applied. It was any- 
thing but easy, was the old chair ; but when any of the 
family were sick, they were placed in the " easy-chair," 
that always sat beside the bed in the best room, and 
made themselves comfortable, or imagined themselves 
so, by the appliance of pillows, propped bolt upright as 
a soldier on parade. 

That '" best room " — and poor was the best — comes 
back to me in memory, redolent with odor of pine- 
boughs, gathered in the woods around Fox Hill, or the 
denser shades of Chase's Pasture. The little low fire- 
place was filled with such, while upon the mantel above 
it sported dried bouquets of wild field-flowers and 
grasses, that were in keeping with the simplicity of a 
sanded floor, scoured to half its original thickness by 
the hard rubs of time, and revealing numerous knots 
that lay about like hassocks in a meadow, that could not 
be scoured down. There were upon the wall some 
striking profiles — ancestral effigies — in fly-stained 
frames, once beaming with the bravery of unsullied gold- 
leaf These profiles, cut from lily-white paper, behind 
which was placed a black back-ground, presented the 
tout ensemble of the family, though why more than one 



184 Mr GEA2JDM0THEE. 

was necessary to embleroize the whole^ I never conld 
think; for they were all alike, and all looked "down 
the corridor of Time/'' with their peaked noses ever 
pointing pertinaciously in one direction. Then there 
was the black old desk in the corner, with its brazen 
and glaring impudence of finish, thrust ont ostenta- 
tiously, as if conscious of aristocratic importance, as 
though saying, " I am the chief article of furniture in 
this estabhshment ! " I never see it, at this dav, with- 
out thinking of some portly gentleman standing with 
his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, at a meeting of 
second-mortgage bond-holders of the Vermont Central 
Railroad ; but I can't, for the Hfe of me, explain the 
points of resemblance. Then there were in the desk 
mysterious apartments, from which the ends of anti- 
quated papers protruded : and once I remember seeing 
distinctly a silver dollar in an old pocket-book in the 
desk, which book I have now, but the dollar is not. 
There was an ancient gun that hung over the desk, with 
which I used to shoot rats, using gravel-stones for shot ; 
and another gun behind the door, with which my 
brother used to shoot teal, in the mill-pond which 
flowed past the plantation where the house stood in 
which I first knew, and first learned to love, my grand- 
mother. The house was a little, dingy, low structure, 
which seemed then large enough, but which now ap- 
pears so small that the wonder arises how a huge six- 
footer, Hke the writer, could ever have managed to be 
bom there ; and it takes very materially from his self 
esteem to admit that he couldn't very well help it. 
But he has reason to thank God that he was born ; for 
he has had many a happy time since, and much misery, 
which last he is equally thankful for, as it has made him, 
he knows, through suffering, a better man. 



MY GRANDMOTHER. 185 

The first face which he distinctly remembers among 
the early home-scenes was one old with years, but radi- 
ant with cheerfulness and love. This never changed. 
The same kind look, and the same kind manner, marked 
it. By the sick bed or in the social circle, at home or 
abroad, that face, like the sun, bore comfort and joy in 
its beams. She had been very handsome in her youth, 
so everybody said ; but I saw that she was then beauti- 
ful. The old face had no trace of age upon it to me. 
The smile that marked it was always young, and it went 
to every young heart like a sunbeam. I cannot sit in 
the ancient arm-chair, nor look at the grim profiles, with- 
out thinking of her, and recalling the good old face sur- 
rounded by a cap-border of ample frills, rendering it an 
island of benevolence, surrounded by an ocean of spot- 
less purity, reminding one of a sunny isle in some sum- 
mer sea. 

It is the lot of almost everybody to have grand- 
mothers ; but it is not always the custom, I believe, for 
everybody to remember them. I had two, and always 
thought I had the advantage of other boys in this par- 
ticular, until I became aware that Providence had 
planned it so that to each was allotted the same num- 
ber, as each state is entitled to two senators, to operate 
as a " check upon the House.'' Although I had this 
number, and my respect for both was equally divided, 
still I loved " my grandmother " the best ,* and the love 
Avhich then glowed warm in my youthful breast, even 
now, when the sod has lain upon her gentle form for 
thirty years, and the silver threads are gleaming among 
the dark locks about my brow, is stronger and purer than 
at the beginning. The elements of gentleness, and 
kindness, and sweet household piety, were so mixed in 
her that her life was angelic. There was no querulous 
16* 



186 MY GRANDMOTHER. 

complaining, no Rigglestyish jealousy about inattention, 
no ascetic dogmatism, too much assumed by the aged, 
no exaction, about my grandmother. Her life flowed 
on, like a river through meadow land, eighty years long ; 
and as it deepened towards its close, when about join- 
ing the great sea of eternity, it was more quiet and 
gentle, and made the little green things around it, my- 
self included, better by its unconscious influence. 
There was no gossiping about my grandmother. No 
neighborhoods were scandalized by brawls enkindled 
or encouraged by her tongue. Her counsel was ever 
on the side of peace. She always had a good word for 
the erring, and the largest charity for the fallen. No 
bitter denunciation of guilt passed her lips. ^' We are 
born, but we are not dead yet," was her remark ; and 
to do unto others as she would they should do to her, 
her rule of conduct. 

My grandmother was a dear lover of children, and she 
was that marvel, an old person who could tolerate all 
their wildness, and make the whirlwind of their exuber- 
ance subservient to her love. She drew them around 
her by the magic of her manner. All of them loved 
her, and found themselves by her side in a sweet but 
incongruous companionship. She had a fund of stories 
for them, and took part in all their childish sports. 
I remember she was great at Cat's-cradle, and at Fox 
and Geese she was immense — always managing, how- 
ever, to get beaten, and would be delighted at the ex- 
ultation with which her juvenile competitors proclaimed 
their victory ; though all the while she would wonder, 
in a profound manner, how it could be that she was so 
unlucky. Delight shone in her eyes, all the time, that 
would have betrayed to older experience the secret of 
her ill-success. There is not a boy or girl among them 



MY GEANDMOTHEE. 187 

who will not, at this late day, recall my grandmother, 
and avouch for the truth of all that is herein written. 

With the aged she was an old woman, talking gravely 
of the past, and dwelhng in cheerful trust on the future. 
That future was all bright to her. The vicissitudes and 
cares and sorrows of eighty years had done their Avork, 
and she was ready to go. This readiness was based 
upon no canting pretence of good, and no belief in a 
prospective crown earned in the discharge of Christian 
duty. Her duty had been done for the love of it, and 
had received its reward in the reflection of its own 
good. She was good because she could n't help it. 
The close of her life was like the calm glory of an 
autumn evening, and the mild benignity of its setting 
sun gave it a softness and beauty that plainly heralded 
the night of peaceful rest that was to follow, and the 
glorious resurrection morn beyond. 

Such was my grandmother, whose humble history is 
here attempted. She was entitled to no greater his- 
torical prominence. Her life was in a small round of 
duties well done, her aim limited to the wish to make 
others happy. This wish sprang from the infinite love 
that burned within her, and marked all her life ; and 
when she passed away, it was felt that, though her im- 
mediate sphere was circumscribed, she had been no 
inactive liver here, but that the world was better that 
she had moved in it. 



188 THE MILL-BROOK. 



THE MILL-BROOK. 

Pleasantly soundetli the old mill-stream, 
In the summer time when the air is still ; 

It steals on my ear like a Yoice in a dream, 
And it moves my heart as it moyed the mill. 

I drink in its gentle monotone, — 
'Tis a plaintive ditty it sings to me, 

Of an early love that its youth had known. 
Of sundered ties, and constancy. 

Ah, dearly it loved the sturdy mill, 
And day by day, and year Tby year. 

Did the influence sweet of the gentle rill 
The oaken heart of the stout mill cheer. 

The bright stream gave its life to the task. 
And loved the mill as 't were its bride, 

And ne'er a higher boon did ask 
Than day and night to seek its side ; 

To do its bid with earnest zeal, 
And uncomplaining e'er was found ; 

Content, e'en though to turn a wheel 
Might prove alone its duty's round. 

And Time swept o'er the ancient mill. 
And wasted it with a cruel touch. 

But lovingly still did the little rill 
Cling to that it had loved so much. 

Till the wheel was stilled, and drear decay 
Became enthroned on the corner-stone. 

And the dam a shattered ruin lay. 

And the race with weeds was overgrown. 

But constantly the gentle tide. 

As if with time it had truer grown. 

Alone ran on, with a loving pride. 
Amid the scenes its joy had known. 



DAMAGED GOODS. 189 

And as gently yet it flows along, 

A beauteous type of a loving heart, 
That death, desertion, or cruel wrong. 

Can ne'er make from its course depart. 

And this is the story of the stream 

That with a witchery comes to me, 
And mingles with my pensive dream 

Beneath the shade of the wide-limbed tree. 



DAMAGED GOODS. 

"Ah !" said Mrs. Partington, as she stood looking at 
the placards stuck all over the front of a store, adver- 
tising damaged goods for sale. It was not a big R, like 
those which doctors begin their prescriptions with, but 
the simple ejaculation " ah ! '' and, as she said it, people 
going along listened to what she had to say. " This,'' 
continued she, running on like a wheelbarrow, "is what 
is meant by Mr. Jaquets, where he says ' sweet are the 
uses of advertisements;' but," — and here she butted 
against the word " damaged," making two words of 
it, with a profane construction on the first, that made 
her hold her hands up in unqualified horror, — " but, 
though the goods are aged, I don't see the need of 
putting it quite so strong, — so much stronger than the 
goods are, I dare say." Ike here pulled her sleeve, at 
the same time kicking a big dog on the nose, who was 
smelling at her " ridicule," and the old lady moved on 
amid the crowd. 



190 THE SPIRIT OF SEVENTY-SIX. 

THE SPIRIT OF SEVENTY-SIX. 

A JULY DREAM. 

While gitting alone in my easy-cliair, 

With my feet on my desk, in abandon of care, 

My eyes in a dull and dreamy eclipse 

By the cloud of a Yara that rolled from my lips, 

My thoughts in a whirl, like the whirl of the smoke, 

Part sermon, part poem, part satire, part joke, 

Now wrought into romance, now framed to a speech. 

All things considered, and but little of each, 

I heard a gi-eat sound like the flapping of wings. 

Or the rushing of waters released from their springs. 

And said, with a nod, as the sound hastened near, 

" Should that be the comet, now, won't it be queer? " 

But, I thought to myself, " If it is, let it come ; 

I 'm exceedingly glad it has found me at home." 

I 'd scarce entertained this complacent suggestion, 

And ere I had time to ponder the question, 

Down through the roof by invisible door 

A bright form descended, and stood on the floor. 

"Halloa," I exclaimed, as I saw the descent, 

" You 've come in a hurry, now what 's your intent? " 

I looked at him closely — a queer garb he wore. 

Yet noble and grand was the mien that he bore. 

A three-cornered hat on his powdered hair rested, 

A broad-skirted coat his figure invested, 

A waistcoat of buff of capacious degree, 

And breeches by buckles secured at the knee ; 

Long stockings he wore, irreproachably white. 

And shoes whose paste buckles gleamed in the light. 

His face was as bright as a morning in May, 

And my room was lit up, as it seemed, by its ray. 

He smiled as I spoke, and, touching my arm, 

His power enfolded my soul like a charm. 

" I 've just dropped in, my friend, as you see, 

Abruptly, I own, and may be too free. 

But, whether you like it or not, I care nix. 

For I am the Spirit of Seventy-Six ! 

A blustering fellow was I, in my day. 

And somewhat disposed to have my own way. 

You 've heard of me, surely? " I nodded and smiled. 

And ventured : " You 're known to every child." 



THE SPIRIT OF SEVENTY-SIX. 191 

*' Yes," said tlie gliost, " for children are true, 

And love what is free, and practise it too ; 

But, when they are older, 't is different then. 

And the vim of the boys dies out with the men." — 

" Be careful, old Seyen-and-Six ! " then I cried. 

As my breast bubbled over with patriot pride, 

*' You are off o' the track — miles out of the way — 

To cast such reflection on men of our day. 

You just tarry here till the Fourth of July ! " — 

" 0, bosh," said he, tartly, " that 's..all in your eye 

Your Fourth of July is naught but a jest — 

A sort of a snap-cracker fizzle, at best ; — 

Like Sunday devotion, put on for effect, 

That Monday's example will show you neglect. 

The day comes along, 'tis confusion and din. 

And feathers and fuss, and fever and sin, 

A pebble of fun to a cart-load of ' bricks,' 

And this is the Spirit of Seventy-Six ! 

There are noble spirits, though, I will allow," 

He said, as he saw the frown on my brow, 

" And present company 's always exempt 

From all implications of shame or contempt. 

But look at the land ; from year's end to end, 

What strifes and dissensions on all sides ascend ! 

No union, no harmony, ever prevails. 

And cries of discordance burden the gales. 

Here they 'd dissever the bond that I tied. 

For whose mighty braid my children have died. 

And there they would stab in intestinal strife 

The ' parient ' thought that breathed them to life, — 

Uniting in purpose in only one way : 

Consume pig and powder on this common day ! " 

" Our party — "I said, in a tone of dislike. — 

" Excuse me," said he, " at no party I strilie ; 

Each pot cannot black the other one call, — 

Depend on 't, you 're all of you black enough, all. 

The picking of holes in each other's coats 

May end at last with knives at your throats. 

'T was a watchword of ours, and worthy your ken, 

' All for principle — nothing for men ; ' — 

Should you kick to the dogs the political quacks. 

And turn upon all false pretenders your backs. 



192 IKE PARTINGTON AND PUGILISM. 

Give heed to sound sense, and steer for the right. 

Keeping Freedom's old beacon-fire ever in sight. 

Still clinging to Union, — its symbol the charm 

To strengthen each heart, and nerve every arm, 

As it floats in its beauty o'er land and o'er sea. 

The flag of a land undivided and free, — 

Then would the Fourth be no meaningless thing. 

But a yearly returning to Liberty's spring. 

And the jubilant feeling with w^hich it is crowned 

Be woven in action the whole twelvemonth round ! " 

Just then, a treacherous fly, I suppose. 

Tickled the tip of my sensitive nose. 

And, swinging my arm with a motion too rash, 

I lost my nice balance, and fell with a crash. 

I woke with the jar, and wildly did stare. 

But nary a seven-and-sixpence was there ! 

So plain was the vision, I scarcely could deem 

That I 'd been essentially hum'd by a dream. 



IKE PAKTINGTON AND PUGILISM. 

Mrs. Partington was mucli surprised to find Ike, one 
rainy afternoon, in the spare room, with the rag-bag 
hung to the bed-post, which he was belaboring very 
lustily with his fists, as huge as two one-cent apples. 
" What gymnastiness are you doing here ? " said she, 
as she opened the door. He did not stop, and, merely 
replying " training," continued to pitch in. She stood 
looking at him as he danced around the bag, busily 
punching its rotund sides. " That 's the Morrissey 
touch," said he, giving one side a dig ; " and that " — 
hitting the other side — "is the Benicia Boy." She 
said, " Stop," and he immediately stopped, after he had 
given the last blow for Morrissey. "I'm afraid the 
training you are having is n't good," she said ', " and I 
think you had better train in some other company. I 
thought your going into compound fractures in a^b 



J 






X.^^^x^N^te 



Ss^_; • 




,//-w^t^ 



He did not stop, and, merely replying "traiuiujj,'' continued to pitch in. p. 



192. 



IKE PARTINGTON AND PUGILISM. 193 

would be dilatorious to you. I don't know who Mr. 
Morrison is, and don't want to j but I hear that he has 
been whipping the Pernicious Boy, a poor lad with a 
sore leg, and I think he should be ashamed of himself." 
Ike had read the ^' Herald with, all about the great prize 
fight " in it, and had become entirely carried away with 
it. " How strange it is," said Dr. Spooner, as he was 
told the above, " that boys take so naturally to cruelty 
and violence ! In the time of boyhood, the reason has 
not got control, and hence temptations to tyranny and 
Avrong have at this time potent force. We all remem- 
ber the tale of a child, — not a caudality, but a narra- 
tive, — who was seeing a picture of the holy martyrs 
torn to pieces by lions, in the days of Nero, wherein 
one, according to perspective, that was in the back- 
ground, appeared smaller ; and, as it appeared to be 
taking no part, the child, instead of being horror 
stricken at the scene, remarked, with considerable anx- 
iety, that the little lion would n't get any martyr, if he 
was n't very quick ! So, within our knowledge, urchins 
in school were punished by their teacher for tying up 
a cat and whipping it to death. It was on such cases 
that the doctrine of man's total depravity was based. 
Boys who thus began, with none to guide them by the 
dangerous period, kept right on in wickedness, whereas 
the merest slant of the helm to port might have saved 
them. The boy is the least understood of anything in 
the animal kingdom." There 's an opinion as is an 

opinion. 

17 



194 THE OLD SOUTH BELL. 



THE OLD SOUTH BELL. 

With effluent note and musical swell, 

Comes the voice of a friend — the Old South Bell ! 

It speaks to me with an eloquent tongue, 

As for years and years it has spoken and sung. 

By night and by day has it served us well. 

The faithful, truthful Old South BeU. 

Though a hundred years have winged their flight. 

And generations have sunk in night. 

The bell still rings with a tone as true 

As that which its morning hour first knew, 

When old Trimountain hill and dell 

First heard the sound of the Old^South Bell. 

We love to think of that olden time 
When first outspoke its pleasant chime. 
And fancy the ancient matrons and men 
In the quaint and queer old garb of then. 
As the hour of prayer the tongue did tell 
Of the sanctimonious Old South Bell. 

i 

How gravely of old on the Sabbath day 

Did it bid the people to church away, 

And gallants and maidens in silence trod 

The paths that led to the house of God — 

Though their hearts conversed, we know right well. 

As talked the musical Old South Bell. 

'T was a glorious peal its tongue outspoke 

When Freedom's thrill through the land awoke ; 

And ever since, on each natal day. 

We 've felt our pulses the quicker play, 

And we 've loved each note on our ear that fell 

From the jolly, jubilant Old South Bell. 

When fire has threatened the town with harm. 

The Old South Bell has waked alarm, - j 

And the firemen rushed, in fleet career, ■ . ': 

Its clanging and warning tones to hear, 4^ 

While the timid trembled at the knell ,'■ 
Of the blatant, garrulous Old South Bell. 



THE FALSES. 195 

And sad the notes the bell has flung 

When the loved have passed from the loved among ; 

And the mournful throb of the funeral strain 

Has given the aching heart more pain. 

As the frequent and meaning measure fell 

From the grieving tongue of the Old South Bell. 

And other people will hear its voice. 
And "with it grieve, or with it rejoice. 
When the men now living shall pass away 
To join those of the earlier day — 
But still, unchanging, the tone will swell 
Of the faithful and truthful Old South Bell. 



THE FALSES. 



The list would be large, should we attempt to enumer- 
ate them, prevailing as they do everywhere. The falses 
would be found to far exceed the trues. They enter 
the world with us at our birth, beset every avenue to 
our education, and stick to us very tenaciously till we 
are called for, and go. The falses are our pets. We 
fondle them, and cherish them, and enshrine them, and, 
through their speciousness, often, the devil becomes 
transformed to an angel of light. They come in the 
guise of false appetites, false tastes, false ideas, and false 
intentions, — the worst of all, where we make falsity 
a virtue knowingly, leading us to concealments and 
covert action, which makes the hypocrite, what he is, 
the most detestable of men. What a hideous spectacle 
it would be, if we could see each other as we are ! If 
the scales should fall from our eyes, what scaliness 
would be apparent where we now are assured of good- 
ness ! The shrines where we have brought our offer- 
ings would be found in ruins, and we should long for 
our blindness again. But, speaking of falses, awakens 



196 HARD TIMES. 

a ludicrous conceit — the false making-up of the exte- 
rior man : the false eyes, the false legs, the false teeth, 
the false noses, the false hair, the false hps, the false 
complexion ! Suppose these falses should be removed, 
what a mumming among the toothless, and what a stum- 
I bling among the lame, there would be ! How the roses 
of beauty would wither, and what a lank longitude the 
human form divine would assume ! Almost every other 
man we meet has some false feature in his external 
making-up. Timms, with his false teeth from Cummings 
and Flagg's, — the very climax of dental art, — grins at 
Toby, who uses Roathe's hair-dye ; and Toby revenge^ 
himself by pointing at Hardup, whose bald head is 
covered with one of Bogle's wigs, who, in his turn 
winks significantly, as Beau Nipchin passes wearing one 
of Page's mechanical legs ! Thank fortune, we say, that 
we have been preserved from a necessity for any such 
resorts. 



HARD TIMES. 



0, THE ■mid fever of tliis mad unrest. 

When baffled man, amid his hopes and fears. 
Smites in despair his over-anxious breast, 

Not knowing in the dark which way he steers ; 
With brokers on his lee, and subtle sands, 

That late seemed stones, but now prove naught but stocks 
He wrings imploringly his trembling hands. 

And, just like those in Scripture, prays the rocks 
May fall upon him — but prefers the sort 

From California ; and, howe'er their power, 
'T would be to him, just now, delightful sport 

To stand and weather the auriferous shower. 
Begging propitious Fortune to let down 
Boulders of any size — he'll risk his crown. 



A NIGHT OFF POINT JUDITH. 197 



A NIGHT OFF POINT JUDITH. 

Dark was the night, and o'er the ocean's breast 
The angry winds went howling on their way, 

Vexing the billows into wild unrest, 

Uncheered by e'en a star's descending ray ; 

When, struggling through the tempest and the gloom. 
Our bark complained like one in bitter woe. 

As if in dread of some impending doom. 
That threatened in the strife its overthrow. 

But at the darkest, when the shrinking soul 
Was merged in depths of bitterness and fear. 

Above the elemental din there stole 

A bell's sweet tone, — glad music to our ear ! 

And broad before us beamed the beacon-light. 
The twin-star trembling upon Judith's breast. 

That put at once all brooding fear to flight. 
And gave our hearts an augury of rest. 

Light out of darkness ! — so amid the shade 
Of sorrow's night a light supernal breaks. 

And from the dream of grief that late dismayed 
The soul to peaceful consciousness awakes. 



LETTER WRITINa. 

There is no accomplishment that any one can pos- 
sess superior to the gift of letter writing. It is "unques- 
tionably a gift ; and those possessing it make no effort 
to acquire it, but simply lay their pen to paper, and 
thoughts flow from its point with the fluency that 
words drop from the tongue of a conversationalist. 
Letter writers are not necessarily talkers ; their forte 
lies in the scrihendi rather than the loquendi. It io 
painful to read the labored efforts of many very sensi- 
17* 



198 LETTER WRITING. 

ble people, in an epistolary direction ; and it almost 
militates against the pleasure of hearing from them, so 
great a labor is evident in the construction of their 
missives. The easy letter writer is one who writef* 
from a full heart ; who knows just what to say, and 
how to say it ; and the spontaneous flow with which it 
gushes makes us forget, wherever they occur, lapses 
in grammar or orthography. We feel the spirit of the 
writer in every word. The dryest details are illumin- 
ated by it, and the homeliest matters assume an almost 
poetical interest under the touch of genius. The most 
charming letter writer of this description, who poured 
his soul most apparently into his epistles, whether in 
relation to the correction of a proof-sheet, or to a 
matter affecting the tenderest of human, relations, was 
Robert Burns. His letters are models. They speak 
with the simplicity and pathos and strength of his 
great nature, and everybody is as interested in their 
subject-matter, after the lapse of three quarters of a 
century, as those probably were to whom they were 
addressed. Though a gift, practice will overcome many 
natural impediments in the way of success, and the en- 
couragement of correspondence among the young will 
be found advantageous in after life. 



SYMPATHY. 199 



SYMPATHY. 



"Were you ever at Lake Winnipiseogee?" a friend 
asked. We assured him that felicity was in reserve. 
'^ Well," said he, with animation, " I should like to go 
up there with you, next summer, and show you the 
greatest sights you ever saw ; such beautiful hills, such 
magnificent distances, such delightful sheets of water, 
such splendid sunrises ! Why, a sail across the lake 
would reveal to you more delights than you ever 
dreamt of after witnessing a fairy spectacle. You 
must go." And we resolved to go, but not with him. 
Such a companion, with so much enthusiasm, would be 
insufferable. Companionship is only desirable where 
silence, not voice, expresses sympathy with nature and 
with ourselves. The utterance of delightful adjectives 
is a bore, the human voice is a bore, the officious prof- 
fering of opinion is a worse than bore. We know 
the annoyance of the concert-room when the soul is 
at its acme of appreciative bliss, to have a vein of small 
talk permeating the melody. The nerves, stretched on 
the tuneful rack, are more susceptible then, and the 
chit-chat, untimely carried on, is sadly provocative of 
violence. We feel that it cannot be tolerated, and a 
counteracting bitterness is excited in proportion to the 
effluence of the sweet. So by the sea-shore, or on a 
mountain, or a lake, or a prairie, or in a wood, the same 
feeling prevails, the delights we realize fixing the meas- 
ure of the annoyance. We feel sometimes that it is 
good for a man to be alone, when he lends himself 
to enjoyments like those afforded by communion with 
nature. 

The voice of friendship sounds harsh when it dis- 
turbs the silence of the fields ; and the kindest words 



200 SEA-AIR. 

would fain be dispensed with, or deferred till a more 
convenient season, if uttered when the soul is filled 
with its devotion. But infinitely worse is it when the 
garrulous ' drive of ordinary companionship chatters 
about one's ears, obtruding itself upon the sacredness, 
like a parrot in a church. This fastidiousness is not 
peculiar to ourselves, and, though it may not be 
expressed, it is very generally felt. 



SEA-AIR. 

" Are there many people masticating at the sea-side ?" 
asked Mrs. Partington of one who had returned: from 
there, bearing evident marks of being used up. He in- 
formed her that there were, but that the wet weather 
had had a tendency to keep them in-doors, and that rus- 
ticating by the sea, if she meant that, had been attended 
with some mastication likewise. " How pleasant it must 
have been," said she, smiling like the distant sunshine, 
^' when denied the pleasure of imbibing the air out doors, 
that you could imbibe within ! It has had a very bene- 
ficious efi'ect on your health ; for your countenance is 
as blooming as a peony." — " The sea-air is very salu- 
brious," replied he, " and the constitution soon begins to 
show its efi'ects." — " Yes," said the dame, taking a pinch 
of snuff, " so I should jedge ; and not only the constitu- 
tion, but all of the revised statues, besides. I have no 
doubt the sea is slewbrious, very — " — " And a great 
slew of people go to see it," said Ike, breaking in. — 
" But depend upon it," continued she, " there 's some- 
thing at the bottom of it." — " What is that ? " inquired 
the young man, raising his eyes from a page of Chitty's 
Pleadings. — " The telegraph cable, perhaps," replied 



AN ODD fellow's FUNERAL. .201 

she, concluding her pinch. The young man whistled 
faintly, and Ike at the instant knocked over an ink- 
bottle with a feather-duster, in an attempt to kill a fly. 



AN ODD FELLOW'S FUNERAL, 

Bending sadly o'er thy form. 
Late with Love and Friendship warm. 
Brother, in our night of grief, 
What shall give our hearts relief? 

Shrined within this mortal clay. 
Such a loving spirit lay. 
That we shrink, with half distrust. 
Ere we give it back to dust. 

Charity's unfading light. 
Honor's lustre, pure and bright. 
Truth's effulgent radiance blest. 
Ever filled that faithful breast. 

Generous manliness and grace 
Found a constant 'biding-place 
Li the fane here closed and dark. 
Quenched its late illuming spark. 

Brother, from thy heavenly rest. 
From thy home amid the blest. 
Come, in angel guise, to cheer 
Those who sorrow for thee here. 

From that radiant " Lodge on High," 
Comes to us this glad reply : 
Mourn not, for the path he 's trod 
One decrree is nearer God. 



202 THE COURTS. 

THE COURTS. 

The courts are great institutions. We always take 
our hats off in a court-room, partly from reverence for 
the law, partly from respect for the custom of the place, 
and partly from fear of having it knocked from our own 
poll by the pole of a constable. What a dignity — 
awful and sublime — seems embodied in the justice, who 
figures in the reports as the alphabetical and familiar 
" J." We hear him addressed as " yer honor," and the 
spirit prostrates itself before the exponent of stern jus- 
tice, while fancy draws an imaginary sword and a pair 
of huge scales in his hand — the latter of which are to 
be used in weighing the exactest awards, and the former 
to cut off from the side on which the surplusage re- 
mains, as a butcher would divide a piece of beef, or a 
grocer would divide a cheese. We cannot divest our- 
selves of the idea that we have seen his honor eating a 
hearty dinner at Parker's, and laughing like he 'd die at 
a funny joke, and telling many himself with infinite 
gusto, and " dipping his nose in the Gascon wine" with 
stupendous relish, as though he were an excellent judge 
of such things. The judicial ermine becomes, in the 
light of reality, a genteel black coat, made by Arming- 
ton, and the sword and scales fade away like mystic 
things seen in dreams. What a subject for contempla- 
tion is the jury, — that "palladium of our liberty," as some 
one has called it, — which stands between the law and 
trembling rascality, in dignified impartiality, to listen to 
the evidence, the pleadings, and the charge, and remem- 
ber enough of the combined stupidity — if they are 
capable of remembering it — to say which side shall 
win. We love to look upon those devoted conscripts 
of the state, with their minds made up to one point 



THE COURTS. 203 

before they begin — that they are bored. The sheriff's 
wand and the sword, that fearful implement, ready to 
impale any one who may transgress, are fearful things 
to contemplate ; and we turn to listen to the oath so 
solemnly administered to the trembling witnesses, who 
hold up their right hands and bow when the sound of 
the clerk's voice has ceased, just as if they had under- 
stood what he said. But a spectacle sublime as is to be 
met with in court is the examination of witnesses in 
order to arrive at the truth of a case. Had this not 
been so faithfully described in the report of the case of 
Bardell vs. Pickwick, it would be well to speak of it at 
this time. Of course, every one who goes on the stand 
is a conspirator on one side or the other, and is dis- 
posed — so great is the depravity of the human heart — 
to lie ; hence it is necessary for counsellors, who are 
dear lovers of the truth, to browbeat and harass them 
by a thousand impertinent questions, in order to worry 
the scoundrels into truthfulness by making what they 
say sound as little like the truth as possible. A man 
goes upon the stand with an idea that he is, like Hamlet, 
indifferent honest, but leaves it with a strong impres- 
sion that he combines in himself the qualities of all the 
great liars that ever lived, from Ananias to Munchausen, 
has robbed a grave-yard, passed counterfeit money, spent 
ten years in state-prison, and deserves to go there again ! 
Great is justice, and her courts are sacred. We take 
our shoes off, figuratively, in reverence, and move out, 
shutting the door quickly, lest any of the atmosphere of 
the precinct be displaced by the obtrusion of unsanc- 
tified air. 



204 SICK OF IT. 

SICK OF IT. 

There is a vaulting ambition that o'erleaps itself, and 
falls on the other side — a biting-the-nose-off operation, 
to manifest a contempt for the face — a performance of 
very hard work, to avoid a very simple job. This was 
illustrated, during the skating season, very capitally, by 
Ike. He had asked permission to remain at home, but 
Mrs. Partington told him, if he ever expected to be an 
" iminent man, he must be acidulous in his studies ; " 
and he went to school with a feeling something akin — 
perhaps a second cousin — to disappointment. His new 
skates were aching to be tried, and the dim, hazy atmos- 
phere had in it a foreboding of snow. Temptation beset 
him from within and without. All the Bill Joneses and 
Tom Smiths seemed to be going skating. He met them 
as he went along to school, and they all pulled him by 
the sleeve, and asked him to join them. " I '11 tell you 
what you can do/' said one of them : " eat a piece of 
this when you get to school, and it '11 make you sick 
enough to go home." He gave him a small piece of 
a dark substance, and Ike went to school. — " Please, 
ma'am," said one of the scholars, " Ike Partington 's 
sick." He sat with his head bowed down on his hands, 
and his teacher spoke to him. He looked up, as she 
spoke, and his paleness startled her. " You had better 
go home," said she, in a tone of alarm ; " perhaps the 
air will make you feel better." He went out, but the 
earth seemed sick to him. It appeared to heave at 
every step. The Bill Joneses and Tom Smiths were 
watching for him round the corner ; but they seemed to 
him to be diseased — they looked jaundiced and yellow. 
They took him by the arms to lead him to the creek, 
but he longed to throw himself beside every fence. 



LOOK UP. 205 

The skates looked hateful to him, and the ice was a big 
mirror in which a naughty boy had to see himself mag- 
nified. The whirling of the skaters made his head 
swim. He never felt so before, and he thought he was 
going to die. The thought of his duplicity made him 
feel worse, and he resolved to go home, as Mrs. Par- 
tington told us, " like the Probable Son," and " make a 
clean breast of it," which was accomplished by con- 
fession and a draught of warm water. We publish this 
story for the benefit of little people who are interested 
in Ike, who might be induced, like him, to eat tobacco 
in order to get out of school. 



LOOK UP 



Look up, and let your ravislied eyes unfold 

Li purer airs than these terrestrial mists ; 
Embrace the firmament above unrolled, 
' And sun and stars, God's bright evangelists ; — 
Look upward, and the heavenly light will pour 

Down in your soul, and cheer it with its ray. 
As, through the sun's sweet efSuence, the flower 

Unfolds to beautify and bless the day. 
Look up, and thus the earth-environed soul 

May get a glimpse of the pellucid stars. 
As prisoners held by outraged law's control 

Catch day's bright glories through their dungeon bars. 
But where those masons make the mortar fly, 
'T were best then to " look out," and " mind your eye." 
18 



A DOMESTIC STORY. 

Mrs. Clemext declared that she was not jealous. 
She had affirmed this so often that she beKeved it, as 
fully as she beheved that Tom Clement, her husband, 
was the handsomest fellow in the world. The Clements 
had been married for several years, and it had been 
fair weather with them all the time. It was a standing 
^'oke with them that nothino; inclement could occur 

%r- O 

where both parties were Clement, and all went on 
smoothly enough. Children were bom to them, — 
beautifQlly harmonious children, — bom under pleasant 
auspices, and were models for the world's imitation. 
Such babies rarely were to be seen, and they were tall 
feathers in the family cap, and added greatly to the hap- 
piness of the worthy couple who boasted their paternity. 

Xothing Hke jealousy ever entered that happy house- 
hold. Clement regarded his wife as an angel, and when 
any visiting friend would joke with him concerning the 
wickedness of the times, and about standing on slippery 
places, he would snap his fingers, as much as to say he 
did n't care a snap, not he, for the suggestion, feeling so 
confident in her integrity. 

While this feeling was at its height, a new family 
moved into the Clement neighborhood. They were 
young people, and genteel according to the orthodox 
standard of gentility. Their name was Seville. They 
had moved into Hopetown from abroad, and brought 
with them letters to the best famihes in town ; among 
the rest to the Clements, who took an early occasio.n to 

(206^ 



A DOMESTIC STORY. 207 

call upon their new neighbors, and proffer them the 
courtesies usually bestowed upon new comers by old 
settlers. They found the Sevilles very fine people ; 
the one a gentlemanly and pleasant man, the other a 
lady of rare beauty and winning address, and the visit 
afforded great satisfaction to the Clements. It was re- 
newed afterwards, and a very agreeable sociality sprang 
up between the families, and mutual and frequent vis- 
itations were exchanged. 

At these visitations, Mrs. Clement noticed how atten- 
tive her husband was to Mrs. Seville, and Clement re- 
marked that his wife seemed very happy at the atten- 
tions of Mr. Seville. Still, there was no jealousy 
mingling with the feeling. 

" Mrs. Seville is a charming woman," said Clement, as 
he was proceeding home, with his wife on his arm, " a 
charming woman." 

He looked up at fiery Arcturus as he spoke, as if he 
were informing that luminary of the fact ; and the star 
seemed to wink at him in return. 

" Don't you think Mr. Seville a very splendid man ?" 
asked Mrs. Clement. " Such a noble bearing, such a 
tenderness of manner, such whiskers ! " 

She spoke earnestly, and bore down heavily upon 
Clement's arm, looking at a distant gas-light, which 
seemed to glare upon her like a burning eye. And thus 
they walked home, without exchanging another word. 

It occurred to Tom Clement, the next day, that his 
wife was strangely intimate with Seville, the night 
before, and he remembered her eulogistic remark con- 
cerning him with a feeling akin to pain. But he was 
not jealous. The feeling was simply a dread lest she 
should be deemed imprudent. 

"How strangely infatuated Thomas is with Mrs. 



208 A DOMESTIC STOEY. 

Seville ! " said Mrs. Clement to herself, the next day, as 
she sat alone. " What attention he pays her ! How h'^ 
lolls over her chair, and turns over the leaves of her 
music-book ! It is years since he has been so attentive 
to me.'^ There was a tear in her eye as she said or 
thought this, and something like a sigh escaped her 
lips. But she was not jealous. That was an admission 
that she would never make, even to herself 

And thus things went on. Weeks passed away, and 
harmony was unbroken in the home of the Clements. 

" Are not Seville's attentions to you rather annoy- 
ing ? " asked Clement, one morning, at breakfast. He 
asked it carelessly, as though he were indifferent about 
it himself, and only spoke on her account. She colored 
up very warmly, before she replied, 

" I asked Mrs. Seville the same question concerning 
your attentions to her. I guess, if she can endure her 
affliction, I can mine." 

There was a little mustard in the reply, — about as 
much as is found in a lobster-salad, rendering it slightly 
acrid. 

Clement was surprised at the reply. He — he — the 
model husband, whose irreproachable constancy had 
long been a subject of admiration — to himself — to be 
thus assailed, by implication even, was not to be borne 
without suitable notice. He laid down his knife in 
order to give due effect to what he was to say, as a 
rebuke or a moral lesson, given with a mouthful of food 
for mastication, loses in its effect as food for reflection, 
— a fact duly enforced by a recent decision of the 
Retro-Progressive Unity. 

"Do you say, Jane," said he, severely, "that I pay 
more attention to Mrs. Seville than is called for by the 
rules of courtesy ? " 



A DOMESTIC STORY. 209 

" And do you think, Thomas," replied she, " that Mr. 
Seville pays more attention to me than gentlemanly 
politeness might warrant ? " 

" I do," said he, rapping his knife-handle on the table. 

" Ditto I do," said she, spilling her coffee, in her agi- 
tation. 

Clement pushed his chair away from the table, and, 
with his breakfast unfinished, left the house. It was 
the first domestic squall that had ever swept over their 
home, and, like the received opinion of the effect of the 
fall of man upon the earth, sorrow followed it. At 
home, the children were cross, the cat had a fit, the 
clothes-horse fell over upon the stove, the maid burst a 
fluid-lamp, and general confusion prevailed. At the 
store, Clement quarrelled with his partner, offended a 
customer, couldn't raise money to pay a note, took a 
counterfeit bill, was drawn on a jury, and had his 
pocket picked. 

It was with a sad heart that he proceeded homeward 
at night, where he had found so much peace and hap- 
piness. He dreaded to go home, dreaded to meet the 
wife he had so long loved ; and yet he felt angry that 
she should treat him thus. JSe had done nothing 
wrong, and she alone was responsible for all the dark- 
ness that he felt was lowering around his house. And 
then there arose in his mind dark images of separation 
and disgrace, that haunted him like devils, and the pic- 
ture of a ruined home and banished peace ; and he shut 
his eyes and groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. 
He entered his door with a moody brow, and, like the 
shadow of his own, his wife's brow was troubled, and 
she acted as if she felt, for the first time, the duty of 

house-keeping. There was no cheerfulness in it. 

18* 



210 A DOMESTIC STORY. 

^^ I have business that will keep me late this evening/* 
said he, dryly. 

" Yery well," she replied, in a tone of indifference ; 
'^ I shall not sit up for you, then." 

And thus they parted for a second time. I am a 
believer in the utility of these little acidities. The mild 
reactions of temper have an effect to break up the crust 
that environs a life possessed of too much peace. The 
iron lying unused dies of corrosion. Gentle rubs are 
needed to keep us bright. Love glows diviner when 
emerging from the little clouds which for the moment 
obscure it. But this quarrel was more serious; it 
sprung, not from matters inherent in the parties, — little 
pettishness, or wilfulness, that has but a momentary 
existence, which, like Cassio's temper, emits a hasty 
spark, and then is straightway cold again. It had its 
rise in extraneous ground, and jealousy, that snake 
in the grass, lay coiled at its root. They were not 
jealous, however, if one were to believe them. 

Clement was away every night for a week, on busi- 
ness, of course, as he told his wife, in the brief conver- 
sation that occurred between them ; and she expressed 
no concern about it at all, though when she was alone 
she cried as if her heart would break with her sorrow. 
She would not let him know she felt so badly, for the 
world, so stubborn is the womanly nature ; and he, 
though he felt penitent, would not make advances 
towards a reconciliation, so obstinate is the manly 
nature. As some one has said, there is a good deal of 
human nature in men and women. 

Neither had visited the Sevilles all the while the 
quarrel had lasted. They had thought so much of each 
other that they had no room for any other thought. 

"I saw your wife, last night, Tom," said a neighbor, 



A DOMESTIC STORY. 211 

" coming out of Seville's gate. You did n't know his 
wife had gone out of town, did you ? " 

If he had received a pretty hard knock on the head, 
he could not have been more astonished. But he tried 
to assume the old confident tone. 

" You did, eh? weU, what of it?" 

" Why, it 's all well enough, I suppose," said the tor- 
mentor, giving a wink to a bystander, Avhich Clement 
did not see ; " but I thought it was rather a queer time 
to visit a house, at ten o'clock at night, when the mis- 
tress of the house was away. She went three days ago." 

" I '11 risk it," said he, with an attempt at a smile that 
was a positive failure, and turned away to conceal his 
emotion. 

He was as crazy as a spirit-rapper, all the rest of the 
day. He made entries in the ledger, and attempted to 
strike a balance in the day-book. He drew a check 
payable to Seville, and put* his wife's name to it. He 
addressed his partner as Seville, and drew up a promise 
to pay, payable at "ten o'clock at night," instead of 
ninety days. But amidst it all he came to a great con- 
clusion — he would loatch his wife. What a step this 
was, where distrust resolved to tip-toe it through the 
dark, and watch the movements of one his heart told 
him he loved ! Though it has been a madness of mine 
that jealousy and love were incompatible • that true love 
expended itself irrespective of its object, and would 
lead to sorrow and death, but not to hate ; that jealousy 
is a selfish feeling, springing from passion unrequited, 
but passion is not love, though the dictionary says so. 
This may be only a craze, so let it pass that he loved 
her. It was a mean thing to watch her, at any rate. 

He informed her, when he went home, that business 
would keep him out ; but the tone of his voice was so 



212 A DOMESTIC STOEY. 

different from what it had been when he had previously 
made her the same grave announcement^ that she was 
struck by it. At that moment, from some quarter, a 
little suspicion dropped down into her mind, just as she 
dropped a lump of sugar into her tea, though the sus- 
picion was not as sweet, and the figure of Mrs. Seville 
became revealed to her gaze plainly in the lump of 
butter on the table. She had heard, that very afternoon, 
that Mr. Seville had been called out of town on busi- 
ness, and her little head at once assumed it to be cer- 
tain that the treacherous Tom was to spend the evening 
in the society of the lonesome wife. Harrowing reflec- 
tion ! But she said nothing. 

Clement went out, like a lamp filled with bad oil, and, 
after a little while, Mrs. Clement came down stairs 
dressed in a perfect disguise, she having drawn largely 
upon the servant's wardrobe, and her own mother 
wouldn't have known her from the Milesian Biddy 
whose dress she wore. She opened the door softly, and 
went out. 

" There she comes," said Clement ; " I know her 
through all her disguises." 

He stood just across the street, leaning upon a post. 
His heart beat a quick measure against his ribs, and his 
knees knocked together as he thought of the perfidy he 
was about to detect. He moved down the street, with 
his eye upon the little figure flitting along before him in 
the gloom of night, with which his own gloom was in 
perfect sympathy. She stopped, at last. His suspicion 
was too true. She entered the gate leading to the 
Seville mansion. He waited long enough to give her a 
chance to enter before he ventured to follow. 

A bright light burned in a lower corner room, in 
which room were two windows, one looking towards 



A DOMESTIC STORY. 213 

the front of the house, and the other towaids the end. 
He hesitated a moment, and then, with '' Tarquin's 
ravishing strides," he stole into the enclosure, and took 
position beside the end window. There was an indis- 
tinct sound of voices inside, — masculine and feminine, 
— but whose he could not determine. The curtain, 
too, was obstinately close, admitting not a single con- 
venient eye-hole, so essential in cases where a criminal 
thing is to be proved. He listened painfully, but the 
voices were provokingly indistinct. He thought he 
would go round to the other window, and see if he 
could see better. As he stealthily neared the corner, 
feeling his way along in the dark, he came in con- 
tact with another form, that appeared to be groping 
in the direction which he came. He grasped the form 
in his arms. A shriek rang out on the night-air. The 
door opened, and Mr. Seville and his wife were revealed, 
by the light of a lamp, standing on the door-step. 

'^ Hallo, Clement ! " said he, in a tone of surprise ; 
" why don't you come in ? Who screamed ? " 

" 'T was — 't was — 't was my wife," replied he, rather 
confused. " She struck against something, and was 
much alarmed." 

" Well, come in," said Seville ; and they stepped 
inside the door. 

" I declare," said Mrs. Seville, " I should think you 
were coming to surprise us, you look so strangely. 
Why, how queerly you are dressed, Mrs. Clement ! " 

" 'T was a whim of mine," said that little woman, 
with a faint attempt to laugh ; '^ please excuse it, do." 

She did not dare give the reason for her strange dis- 
guise, but held her head down, and seemed rather 
ashamed of it, or of herself As she glanced up into 
her husband's face, and saw the troubled expression it 



214 A DOMESTIC STORY. 

wore, she wished to throw herself upon his breast and 
explain the mystery to him, and beg to be forgivenj and 
to forgive him, whether he begged it or not, for the pain 
he had caused her, but was restrained by the presence 
of the Sevilles. She saw the necessity of keeping from 
them the secret ; and so, overcoming the embarrassment 
of her manner, she became the vivacious and sparkling 
little creature, to all appearances, that she ever had 
been. She laughed at her bonnet, and laughed at her 
dress, and made fun of herself in every way ; but there 
was a terrible choking in her throat, all the time, and 
she would much rather have cried. 

Somehow or other, her husband's attentions to Mrs. 
Seville did not seem half so pointed to Mrs. Clement, 
and the assiduity of Seville to please his wife did not 
seem any way offensive to Tom Clement. His thoughts 
were all with his wife, as hers were with him ; and they 
mutually longed to be together, that they might have 
the mystery cleared up. The feeling became insup- 
portable, at length, and, bidding good-by, they brought 
all the hypocrisy and lying of dissembled pleasure to a 
close, and went home — home, that had not been home 
for a week, that had seemed as long as four common 
sunless weeks ; for the sun of their love was under a 
cloud. 

As soon as they arrived, even before she had taken 
off her disguise, she threw herself upon his neck, and 
asked his forgiveness. 

" Forgive me ! — forgive me ! " said she, sobbing ; 
'' will you forgive me ? '^ 

" Yes, yes," said he ; " anything, everything. But 
what particular thing shall I forgive first ? " 

" Forgive my doubting your love ; and for believing 
that you cared more for Mrs. Seville than you did for 



A DOMESTIC STORY. 216 

me ; and for watching, in this disguise, for two nights, to 
see if you was n't there, while her husband was away, 
as Mrs. Screed said he was." 

Poor Tom caved in, on hearing this, and he could n't 
trust his voice to answer her, but gave her a hug that 
had a very long sentence of meaning in it, while a tear 
or two fell on the upturned beautiful brow before him, 
as their lips met in a forgiving embrace. The sensi- 
tive reader will forgive me — as forgiveness is here the 
theme — if I am a little warm in my description. My 
old blood j5res up, at the portrayal of such a scene, 
and my words smack a little of the enthusiasm of the 
moment. 

" And will you forgive my doubt of you ? " said he, 
at length ; " I, who had so little cause ? who was at 
Seville's house for the purpose of watching you, when 
we met, set on by that sneak of a Screed, who has been 
for two years trying to make me jealous ? " 

" Then you loere jealous ? " said she, archly. 

" A little," replied he ; " were n't you ? " 

" A little," she confessed. 

" Well, here I record my vow," said he, kissing her 
lips, " that I will be no more jealous of you, and may 
heaven keep me loyal to it ! " 

" And here I register my vow," kissing him back 
again, " and reverently ask for the same strength." 

And the vows were religiously kept ; and, though 
Clement was attentive, and courteous, and friendly, and 
loving, to others, she was not jealous ; and, though she 
was admired, and courted, and beloved, by others, he 
was not jealous j for they both knew that, however the 
whole world might worship in the outer temple of their 
hearts, there was a holy of holies within where none 
but themselves might enter. 



216 AN INNER SHRINE. 



AN INNER SHRINE. 



Every man, who has a home as big as an ordinary 
kennel, should take some corner of it for himself, and 
hold it in possession sacred from the profaning foot of 
any save whom he shall choose to admit. This is as 
necessary as that he should wear his own clothes. It 
should be a spot to which he may retire and commune 
with himself, which he cannot do when agitated and 
harassed by ont-door influences ; and a half-hour thus 
spent would be better for him, humanly speaking, than 
many dollars, if it may be measured by dollars. This 
self communion is not enough practised, and ourselves 
are the least acquainted with ourselves of any that we 
profess to know. Such little sanctum sanctorum is a 
constant incentive to thought. .Do you smoke ? Yes ? 
Then here is just the place for you. Enter, lock your 
door, light your meerschaum or cigar, throw yourself 
on your easy-chair or lounge, and there think, as the 
smoke curls gracefully over your head. There is a 
luxury in thought at such time. The demons that came 
in with you, which all day long may have haunted you 
with insidious, or tantalizing, or perplexing shadows, 
holding them before you like stereoscopic pictures, fly 
out with the gracefully curling smoke. At such time 
your mind, stormy previously, perhaps, has subsided 
to a calm, having nobody to quarrel with, and gentle 
fancies come in as Memory summons them, and delight- 
ful reverie, the fairy-ground of the intellectual realm, 
is entered upon through the avenue of silence. Tliis 
is luxury. Dream, now, with your eyes open. You 
see and do not see the uncertain forms and scenes that 
lead a mystic dance before you. Eyes long lost, that 
the mould has claimed for years, look once more lov- 



CONSTANT DROPPING WEARS. 217 

ingly upon you. Smiles, that faded into thin air, as the 
rose-bkish exhales, to form deathless roses in the upper 
sphere, beam again upon you. Yoices, that bore love 
in their tones, and remained not long enough to give 
love expression, again are heard ! All fancy, but yet 
real — impalpable, but more substantial than the coarse 
world about you. The half-hour's thought or reverie is 
worth a day, to your spirit, of the harsh encounter of 
life. "Enter into thy closet," and prayer becomes a 
natural effluence, flowing out of the very holiness of 
repose. But shut the door. White arms and pouting 
lips are inveterate enemies of solitude, and they are 
very obtrusive. 



CONSTANT DROPPING WEARS. 

There's an old saying — very old and trite — 

That constant dropping wears away a stone ; 
But this conclusion of accretive might 

Is not confined to rugged stones alone. 
The stoutest spirit sinks beneath the word 

That constantly in peevish cadence swells, 
And, worn and weary, it is wildly stirred. 

Or, banished peace, in recklessness rebels. 
Indifference blunts the force of captious flings. 

Which all innocuous fail the heart to move ; 
But, 0, how sharp the cruel barb that wings, 

Thrown by the hand of those we fondly love ! 
Such drops as those, the world has ever shown, 
May, by their dropping, turn the heart to stone. 
10 



218 EMULATION. 



EMULATION, 



Emulation — a healthy emulation — should be en- 
couraged. Generosity should characterize it always^ 
and prevent the mingling with it of any bitter rivalry^ 
to which it is too liable when undirected. " Never do 
anything enviable or malicious, Isaac/' said Mrs. Par- 
tington, with a grave expression upon her face, and 
an iron-spoon in her hand. " Immolation should be en- 
couraged ; but, then, we should be always wiUing to 
make sacraments of ourselves, sometimes, for others ; 
for the world is wide enough for everybody, as the lit- 
tle boy said, when he let the bumblebee go." — " What 
did he let him go, for ? " said Ike, who was rather inter- 
ested in natural history. — " Because he did n't want to 
nurt the inseck, and might have got hurt himself, if 
he 'd ha' tried to. This should be a sample for you, 
Isaac. Hurtin' others, through a wrong spirit of immo- 
lation and riflery, depend upon it, will never help your- 
self. ^ Fair play for all ' is the mortar for you to sail 
under, which you should always nail to your kilson as a 
guide." She brought the spoon down with emphasis, 
as she concluded, seeing that her young auditor had 
left her, and was playing baU with Lion in the yard. 
The old lady was right. Among the variety of things 
that awaken emulation among men, it were curious to 
know how much accident has to do with its quickening. 
The best-laid schemes of parents become as naught 
when striving to direct their children businessward, 
when accident fires some latent train, the will is mag- 
netized into action, and a noble ambition fixes the pur- 
pose. Of aU the incentives, however, to emulation, of 
which we have heard, that which brought out the great 
Newton was the queerest. He was dull at school, and 



PARTINGTONIAN WISDOM. 219 

gave no evidence of superiority until a boy above 
him in the class kicked him in the stomach. Newton 
could n't flog him, so he determined to surpass him in 
study, and beat him in this way, which was done ; and 
Sir Isaac became great, and made that discovery about 
the apple, which has been such a blessing to the world, 
because, if it had never been discovered that apples 
were attracted towards the earth, we should have nat- 
urally supposed that they fell from their own weight, 
and could n't help it, like the water over Niagara Falls 



PARTINGTONIAN WISDOM. 

Ike is remarkably fond of turkey, and the hug-me- 
close and the merry-thought he is as much attached to, 
almost, as if they were a part of himself. " Bless me ! '' 
said Mrs. Partington, at table, on Thanksgiving Day, 
looking at the boy, whose face was as greasy as that of 
a New Zealander, " why, you look like a gravy-image, 
dear, and your face shines like the rory-boralius." — 
" With this difference," said old Eoger, winking at the 
Brahmin : " the aurora-borealis appears in fair weather, 
but this in fowL" The Brahmin, by a motion of his 
long beard, was supposed to smile, and a sound re- 
sembling " travels in Turkey and Grease " came from 
his lips. But Mrs. Partington saw not the point. " You 
should learn, dear, to bemean yourself before folks ; 
because, without good behavior, a man may be ever 
so imminent for debility, but will never be inspected." 
She ceased here, and baled a spoonful of the stuflSng 
upon the juvenile's plate, which he took very kindly. 



220 A CUP OF TEA. 



A CUP OF TEA. 



A CUP of tea ! There is nothing like the gentle ex- 
citation of tea. We qnaff the delectable decoction, and 
grow happy amid its genial vapors. The cloud that 
ere while, perhaps, had brooded over ns, and that had 
Imng like an incubus upon us, takes wing and vanishes 
in the silvery steam, as from the Hibernian's mud edi- 
fice, 



" the blue devils and all other evils 



Flew off with the smoke through a hole in the roof." 

Tea is the best inspirer that ever exerted an influence 
upon men. The inspiration of strong fluids is madness. 
The brain is fired through their infernal agency, and 
the glow of its evolved genius is like the glare of the 
baleful fire of the pit, that flashes a while, brilliant and 
sparkling, to go down and leave darkness behind it. 
There is no such evil in Souchong, and in Young 
Hyson is the excess of poetical fancy. It leads to 
music naturally, and the voice, the scene, the lights, run 
directly to immortal song. The brain dances with 
jollity, the curtain of the universal stage draws up, and 
the Beyond reveals itself by rose-fire from the wings. 
Ecstasy is installed. Such is its effect upon the true 
tea-drinker — the connoisseur. There be bunglers, 
however, who should never touch a drop better than 
Bohea, and even raspberry-leaves are good enough for 
them. They guzzle down everything that is tea with 
the same appetite. They don't know Orange Pecco 
from Gunpowder. They drink unappreciatively. Your 
true connoisseur regales all his senses in his cup of tea. 
He sees the golden sparlde of the fluid as it is decanted 
from the urn ; he hears the laughing gurgle that attends 



A CUP OF TEA. 221 

its passage to the cup ; he tastes the pleasant beverage 
with a gout made more susceptible by cultivation ; he 
inhales the delectable aroma with infinite delight; and 
feels exquisitely the sweet distillation as it trickles 
towards its destination, and most sensitively when he 
spills it over into his lap. It is a pity that the first dis- 
coverer of tea were not known. The world should 
unite in a monument to him. Tea has found eulogists 
in all languages, and it would be a very curious matter 
to embody the many things that have been said ; but we 
shall do no such thing, contenting ourselves with a few 
extracts from the works of some of the best in the 
English vernacular. First, we have the testimony of 
him who spoke of tea as the draught which cheered 
without inebriating, an«d who again says, 

There is no charm commended to our sense 
Like that which meets us by the evening board, 
Where the celestial herb distils in balm, 
And falls in tinkling cadence on the ear — 
A fount delectable — a rill sublime ! 
Its vapor iu a steamy volume rolls, 
Eondly and gently, like a halo, round 
Each waiting head, and gratefully inhaled 
It steals like magic through the brain. 
Lulling to dreamy bliss our wild unrest. 
We sip and sip, oblivious though the winds 
In wild confusion rage without, or snows 
In fearful hurly fill the air, or sleet 
Like fairy needles prick the tender skin. 
Content with tea — our true felicity ! 
The voice grows rich in unctuous mellowness. 
As brisk Young Hyson lubricates the tongue. 
Or Old Souchong exerts its balmy power 
To move the heart to gentleness ; and Pecco ! 
Orange Pec ! thy fragrant name we speak, 
And memories most genial in us rise : 
We see the table spread, with doughnuts crowned. 
As erst it tempting sat, while beaming eyes 
19* 



222 A CUP OF TEA. 

Shine round it, fraught 'with olden kindnesses. 
And rosy hues of youth, and smiles of age ; 
We hear the cheerful word, the tender sigh, - 
All floating by as vapory as the cloud 
That folds us round in aromatic bliss. 
And in the plenitude of present joy 
We snap contemptuous lingers at old Care, 
Bidding him, figuratively — go to grass. 

The following, by Pope, is doubtless familiar to all : 

" Here, my St. John, -where Hyson's fames arise. 
And Souchong's vapors dance before my eyes. 
The fancy soars in a voluptuous dream. 
As sweet as sugar, and as rich as cream — 
Roaming through rose-fields of ecstatic scope, 
Tinging anew the golden clouds of hope, 
Urging the stagnant blood through swollen veins. 
And waking melody to bolder strains. 
But, misdirected, leaves life's wholesome side. 
To mix in scandal's darkly-flowing tide. 
There be who claim for wine a potent power 
To soothe the sorrows of the dreary hour. 
While some, again, would fain exalt the praise 
Of stronger fluids lagging life to raise ; 
But o'er them all my task it e'er shall be 
To sing the praises of a cup of tea " 

Br. Johnson's love of tea is proverbial, and his wisest 
and wittiest sayings, as recorded by the faithful Bos- 
well, proceeded from the inspiration of the herb. 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

A TALE FOR THE HOLIDAYS. 
CHAPTER I. 

All well remember the disastrous period when the 
Eastern Land Bubble exploded; when many who 
thought themselves wealthy discovered their mistake, 
and became plunged in irremediable ruin, either as prin- 
cipals or as endorsers. It was a fearful time, and in the 
change which occurred in the fortunes of such as had 
been living in luxury was a depth of misery that knew 
no relief. Families that had been reared in affluence 
were reduced to poverty, and many fair eyes became 
familiar with tears that had seldom known them before, 
and many hearts ached as clouds of doubt fell upon a 
future before bright and joyous. 

It was on a fair morning, in the summer of 1836, that 
Mr. Milling, the merchant, entered his counting-room, 
and sat down to read the morning papers. His brow 
was unruffled, and his spirit was calm. The money- 
market was tight, but he had no notes to mature that he 
could not meet, and there was paper due the concern 
which was well endorsed, that could be counted on at 
any moment. He did not notice that it was long 
beyond the time when Mr. Upshur, his partner and con- 
fidential clerk, was usually at his post, — Upshur, the 
careful and prudent man, whose advice was always 
taken, and whose shrewd business tact had done much 

(223) ^ 



224 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

to secure the position which the house of J. MilKng & 
Co. had attained, at home and -abroad; Upshur, whose 
assiduity, never tiring, had won the praise of all the 
commercial community, and whose opinion was sought 
by all in intricate matters of trade ; Upshur, whose 
honesty was as well established as his shrewdness, and 
whose word alone had, in severe times, carried the 
house he represented through monetary crises. 

At length Mr. Milling looked up, and, missing his 
partner from his accustomed desk, asked, 

" Is Mr. Upshur ill to-day? " 

" I don't know, sir," replied one of the porters ,* " he 
spoke, last night, about going down to ship the Man- 
chesters on board the Baltimore packet, this morning, 
and he has n't been here yet." 

Mr. Milling read on, until, growing impatient, he 
said, 

" Jones, go down to the packet, and see if you can 
learn anything of Mr. Upshur. Something may have 
happened to him." 

The young man did as he was directed, and returned, 
soon after, bringing the intelligence that Mr. Upshur 
had not been at the wharf all the morning, and that, 
calling at his boarding-house on the way back to the 
store, he had been informed that Mr. Upshur had not 
been home during the entire night. 

Mr. Milling was alarmed, and looked at his watch. 
Eleven o'clock! He walked the floor, and appeared 
troubled. There was a cloud on his heart that he could 
not dispel, which reflected upon his brow, and flitted 
across it like a shadow above a meadow. A vague and 
undefined sense of impending trouble took possession 
of him, and a boding of gloom, as if a dark spirit breathed 
in his ear, made him thrill to his inmost core. 



CHEISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 225 

" Mr. Milling seems troubled," said Mr. Partelot, the 
clerk who stood next in the rank of promotion, in the 
event of Upshur's disappearance ; " wonder what 's be- 
come of Upshur?" 

" Don't know, and don't care," was the response from 
the surly-spoken and rough-looking Mr. Savage, who 
occupied a position by his side. 

Mr. Partelot gave his companion a reproachful look, 
and kept on with his writing and his secret thoughts, 
occasionally glancing from the corner of his eyes at 
Mr. Milling, who was seen, through the glass-door of the 
little back counting-room, pacing backwards and for- 
wards with an anxious step. 

" Mr. Partelot," said Mr. Milling, opening the door, 
" will you step in here for a moment ? " 

Mr. Partelot obeyed, and when the door was closed 
behind him, Mr. Milling said, 

" What do you think of Mr. Upshur's disappear- 
ance ? " 

" I trust he may be detained by something which can 
be accounted for satisfactorily," said Mr. Partelot. 

" I hope he may ; but I want you to examine his 
books, and see that everything is right. I fear that he 
has left us clandestinely, though it is but a suspicion as 
yet. Read this note. It was received a year ago, and 
has lain in my desk ever since." 

Mr. Partelot read: 

" Mr. Milling : Be wary of Upshur. A pitcher that 
goes too often to the well may come back broken. 

" Yours, Commerce." 

" Well, sir," said Mr. Partelot, " did you pay any at- 



226 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

tention to the note ? Did you detect any irregularity 
in Mr. Upsliur ? " 

" Not the least," was the reply ; " I have ever ob- 
served the same prudence and care, and never have 
wavered in my confidence in his integrity. And even 
now I scarcely know what leads me to suspect, but 
wish you to run over his books, and satisfy me that all 
is right." 

Mr. Partelot promised so to do, and subsequently re- 
ported that he could detect nothing which betokened 
any carelessness on the part of Mr. Upshur ; that all 
appeared fair, straight, and methodical ; and the mys- 
tery was left to be unravelled by time. 

" The old man seems queer enough," said Partelot to 
Savage, on his return to his desk, " about Upshur ; and 
it is rather strange his disappearing so, is n't it ? " 

" Don't bother," said Savage, who was engaged in 
casting up a column of figures. 

"Do you know. Savage," continued Partelot, "that 
the old man suspects Upshur ? " 

" Of what ? " asked Savage, abruptly, looking up. 

" Twenty, and five are twenty-five, and seven are 
thirty-two," repeated Partelot, as if engaged in reckon- 
ing, on seeing Mr. Milling close by his side. 

" Partelot," said his employer, in a whisper, " I shall 
trust to your prudence. Make no talk about what has 
transpired. It may be that Mr. Upshur will return, and 
give satisfactory reasons for his absence. Say nothing 
about the suspicion I have expressed." 

Mr. Milling left his counting-room, and his two post- 
ing clerks at their books, while the great business of 
selling was going on in the outer store, and went out 
upon 'change. Change ! a spot where the sensitive 
spirit can detect a metallic ring in the contact of 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 227 

sharpened wits, and in the whisper of " exchange " the 
rustle of bank-bills. Change ! where a man coins his 
blood for money, and becomes mammoned in the godless 
whirl of speculation. Change ! through whose muta- 
tions the lord of wealth to-day becomes the slave of 
wealth to-morrow. And here, for a while, Mr. Milling 
partially forgot his anxiety, although occasionally the 
thought of his missing partner, and the uneasy sensation 
before experienced, would obtrude themselves, in des- 
pite of all he could do. Even the excitement of a rise 
in flour failed to move him, though he had thousands of 
barrels upon his hands ; even the failure of a firm that 
owed his house thousands of dollars agitated him not. 
The one idea at last took entire possession of him. He 
walked the pave with an abstracted air, and men pointed 
at him and spoke in whispers as they passed him. 

He was at last aroused by one of his clerks, who 
touched his arm, and said his attendance was immedi- 
ately wanted at the store. 

" Has Mr. Upshur returned ? " he inquired of the 
messenger. 

" No, sir." 

" Any tidings of him ? " 

" Can't say, sir, but Mr. Partelot is in trouble about 
something." 

Mr. Milling left the pave hastily, and walked by the 
shortest path to his store. He saw through the window, 
before he entered, that Mr. Partelot looked much dis- 
turbed, and that a stranger was conversing with him. 

" Glad you have come, sir," said Mr. Partelot, as he 
entered the counting-room door; "we have trace of 
Upshur, sir." There was, however, no joy in his tone, 
even though he said he was glad. 



228 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

"What is it?" said Mr. Milling, his voice betraying 
the deepest anxiety ; " what trace ? " 

" Here, sir," said the clerk, placing in his hands a 
nnmber of papers ; " this, I think, explains his absence." 

Mr. Milling glanced at their purport. His brain 
whirled with the intensity of his feeling, as he read. He 
seized the back of a chair to support himself, the while 
his form trembled with agitation. 

" What is this ? " said he ; ^' obligations — J. Milling 
& Co. — eastern lands ! The firm never had a dollar in 
that infernal bubble. What means this ? " 

" This gentleman can tell you," said Mr. Partelot, turn- 
ing to the stranger. " The papers are made out in his 
name. Mr. Barrus." 

" The same, at your service, sir," said the stranger, 
stepping forward. " Barrus, of the firm of Barrus & 
Emms, Bangor, commissioners. These notes are the first 
of a series made by J. Upshur, for Milling & Co., in 
consideration of certain lands lying in Maine, purchased 
by him. These for twenty thousand dollars have ma- 
tured. The balance to be paid monthly." 

" Perfidious ! damnable ! " cried Mr. Milling, grinding 
his teeth with rage. " This explains the absence of Up- 
shur ! " He fell into his chair, as he spoke, and groaned 
in spirit. Starting to his feet, he demanded of the 
stranger the full amount of the notes he held. 

" One hundred and twenty thousand dollars," was the 
reply, " by our concern. There are other notes held by 
other parties." 

" Ruined ! ruined ! " said Mr. Milling, " irredeemably 
ruined by that rascal, whose friend I have been — whose 
baseness has been returned for my constant kindness ! 
But I deserve it for not regarding the caution I re- 
ceived." 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 229 

" Here is a letter, sir/^ said the porter, handing a pa- 
per to Mr. Milling. He took it in his trembling fingers, 
and recognized the hand-writing of Upshur. He read 
it to himself, and then handed it to Mr. Partelot. The 
letter ran as follows : 

"Mr. Milling. — Sir: You may deem me a scoun- 
drel ; but I am to be pitied. I have been led into the 
temptation of speculation, have compromised our firm 
in its prosecution, and have fled, like Cain, with the 
brand of disgrace on my name. But, while thus leaving 
like a thief, I solemnly promise that my future shall be 
devoted to a reparation of the trouble I have caused. 
You shall not hear from me until I am able to wipe the 
stain from the name of yours, most ungratefully, 

"John Upshur." 

" A dark affair, sir," said Mr. Partelot, handing back 
the letter. 

" Well," said Mr. Barrus, as he found attention divert- 
ed from himself, " as we understand each other, I will 
leave you, and hope this affair will all be settled satis- 
factorily. There 's no use in worrying about it, anyhow, 
and I guess it '11 all come out bright." 

With this sublimely philosophical remark, Mr. Barrus 
left the counting-room of Milling & Co., his mind full of 
visions of islands of dollars rising from submerged 
lands, while all around them swam drowning men, with 
haggard looks, grasping at straws as they sank beneath 
the waves. 

Mr. Milling sat late conferring with Mr. Partelot with 
regard to the course to be pursued in the strait, and the 
shadows of evening fell upon the street before the 
merchant left his counting-room for home. 
20 



230 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE merchant's H05IE. 

Mr. Milling occupied the finest house in Chestnut- 
square. It was built at a time when land was plenty, 
and men had expansive ideas of room and comfort. The 
rooms were spacious and magnificent. Large staircases 
led from broad entries to broad galleries above, upon 
which a twilight gloom was shed from a Gothic window 
over the entrance. Heavily corniced and massively fin- 
ished in all particulars, the house was a fitting residence 
for a merchant prince. Herein luxury had expended 
its utmost art, aided by good taste and abundant means. 
The grounds without were in keeping with the elegance 
within, and everything bespoke the abode of wealth and 
ease. 

Mr. Milling was happy in his domestic relations. He 
had married his wife when he was a clerk with a salary, 
and had arisen to his present eminence in the commer- 
cial world with much of the freshness of feeling which 
had marked his beginning. He was a domestic man, and 
delighted in the society of his wife and two daugh- 
ters. The eldest, Matilda, was a tall, imperial-look- 
ing, and elegant girl, of some twenty years — hand- 
some, but proud ; the youngest was a fair and gentle 
creature of ten, delicate as a snowdrop, and almost 
as frail. A sickly infancy had left her an object of 
deep soKcitude, and care was taken that naught but 
the most tender attention should be paid her. She was 
kept free from the restraints of study, and at the age of 
ten was as artless and undeveloped a little creature, 
intellectually, as ever was made the subject of culture. 
But she had grown in spirit. The angelic wealth of 
her nature had developed in flowers of soul, and made 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 231 

her life one constant joy. There was none of the way- 
wardness of childhood in her seeming, and her blue eyes 
were ever lustrous with tender womanly light. There 
was a marked contrast between Lily and her sister — as 
wide a difference as between their ages. The one was 
admired for her beauty of person and accomplishments, 
the other was loved for her sweetness of disposition 
and unselfishness. There was but little external sym- 
pathy between the sisters, but deep in their natures was 
a bond which knit them closely together, exhibited out- 
wardly in gentle authority on the one part, and passive 
obedience on the other. 

Mr. Milling had always acted upon the belief that the 
best way to make sure of the moral worth of his clerks 
was to encourage intimacy between them and himself, 
and, through a close acquaintance with them, obtain an 
insight into their characters, and learn the motives that 
operated to control their conduct. He had thus opened 
his doors to them on all occasions, made them welcome 
to his fireside, and given them the assurance that he was 
their friend. 

John Upshur had been specially favored. Possessed 
of a very prepossessing appearance, from the first Mr. 
Milling had been struck by him. Acquaintance had 
proved him intelligent, high-minded, and faithful. From 
a boy in the store, he had risen, step by step, through 
the encouragement of his employer, until he had be- 
come confidential clerk and junior partner in the house 
of Milling & Co., with an irreproachable reputation as 
regarded honesty, and a character for business capacity 
and shrewdness that was not to be excelled. 

Eugene Partelot and George Savage, the two clerks 
previously introduced to the reader, had likewise en- 
joyed the almost parental regard of Mr. Milling. Mr. 



232 CHRISTMAS HEAETHS AND HEARTS. 

Upshur, however, had come before them. His hght was 
at its zenith, and the beams of their small lanterns were 
ineffectual in its superior blaze, in the eyes of Miss Ma- 
tilda, who was from the first specially significant in her 
attentions to the polite and handsome clerk, until, as his 
position enlarged in the firm of J. Milling, and enabled 
him to be known as the Co. that was added to the sign 
on the first of January previous, he became the accepted 
lover of the young lady, and the particular friend of 
the family. 

There was a wide difference between Eugene Partelot 
and George Savage. The former possessed great suav- 
ity of manner, paid much regard to personal appear- 
ance, was punctilious in all his habits, and possessed a 
full consciousness of his own transcendent merits. He 
was called by all a good fellow, and his society was 
sought on all occasions. His presence gave life to a 
party, his figure in a ball-room was indispensable, and 
there was not a wedding or a party in the neighborhood 
to which he was not invited. With George Savage it 
was entirely the reverse. His appearance was uncouth 
and careless, his voice rough and uncourteous, his man- 
ner abrupt and startling. A thorough conviction of his 
honesty alone made him tolerable to Mr. Milling, who 
never received him at his house with the cordiality that 
he extended to the other, it being evident, although 
he used him well, that his companion was the favor- 
ite. He would often find himself left alone by his em- 
ployer and more favored associate, to amuse himself as 
best he might. It was on one of these occasions, while 
sitting in moody discontent in Mr. Milling's library, that 
the door opened, and little Lily came tripping in. He 
had seen her frequently before, but had never spoken to 
her, deeming that she avoided him. Now she broke 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 233 

•upon his darkness of spirit like a light from the spheres. 
She approached where he sat, and reached out her hand 
to him, with a smile, saying, 

" You are aU alone, Mr. Savage ? " The tone was so 
kind, that the Savage was melted. He took her hand, 
saying, as gently as he could, 

" No, Miss, they have all left me for more agreeable 
company." 

" Well, then," said she, " I wiU take their place, and 
amuse you the best I can. Shall I sing for you ? " 

Savage replied that he should be delighted to hear 
her, and she sang for him several little airs that she had 
learned, in a voice so sweet and tender, and prattled on 
so prettily, that an hour passed unheeded away, and the 
absence of all the rest of the household was forgotten. 
When they returned they found the little prattler en- 
gaged in her task of amusing. Her sister informed her 
that she must not come down when company was in the 
house unless she was invited, and George Savage saw 
her no more on any of his visits. At last he discontin- 
ued them altogether, and no question was asked why 
he did so. 

Mr. Milling's family were very uneasy concerning him 
on the day named at the outset of our story. The din- 
ner was left untasted, as hour after hour passed. He 
had often staid away, detained by important business, 
but had always sent a message to inform his family, 
in order to remove their uneasiness. His present omis- 
sion to do so was inexplicable. At last, at the hour 
when night struggles with day, his step was heard upon 
the pavement, but it seemed weary and slow, his hand 
upon the door was less active than usual, and the lock 
gave not the energetic click as was wont, denoting by 
its sound the happiness of the master at returning. His 

20* 




234 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

care-marked brow was seen as lie entered, and loving 
voices inquired if he were ill. Lily's arms clasped his 
neck in a fond embrace, and her head bowed upon his 
breast in the mute expression of her heart 's full love. 

'^ I am not ill," he replied to their inquiries ,• " but I am 
sad. I may tell you at once my trouble. Treachery 
and fraud have done their worst with me, and I am 
ruined ! " 

" Ruined ! " said Mrs. Milling, in a voice of extreme 
dismay, which was echoed by Miss Matilda. "Ruined !" 

Lily trembled, and nestled closer to her father's heart. 
She felt his arms tighten about her, and a fervent kiss 
impressed upon her curls. 

" By whom ? " was the question that followed. 

" By one w^hom we have all trusted too much, and 
who has proved a villain." 

" Savage ? " — " Partelot ? " were the inquiries that 
broke upon him from the astonished women. 

" No ! " said he, with a groan, " Upshur ! " 

Miss Matilda, who was watching his lips for the name, 
with eager curiosity, with a shriek fell upon the floor, 
as he uttered the word that crushed her hopes ; and Mrs. 
Milling, seemingly struck speechless with astonishment, 
turned her attention to her fallen daughter, who, by the 
aid of a servant, was carried to her chamber, insensible. 

Mr. Milling and Lily sat alone. She had started from 
his arms at the fall of her sister, but had turned to her 
father again, as the rest left the room. She got upon 
his knee, took his hands from his face, and gazed long 
and earnestly into his eyes. 

" Father ! " said she, at last, with startling energy for 
her, " love is left us. God gives it to the poor, instead 
of wealth ; and, 0, how they love one another who are 
bound together by the ties of a common necessity !" 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 235 

He started, while a feeling of awe crept over him, 
as he looked upon her pale face, and her large, spirit- 
ual eyes, beaming with a lustre he had seldom before 
noticed. 

" And who told you this ? " he asked, as he held her 
from him, and continued his gaze upon her. 

" There is something that comes from there," replied 
she, pointing upward, solemnly, "that tells me many 
things I never dare speak to mortal ears — that I 
dream of and think of when others are at rest. It tells 
me of happiness beyond the present, and that, though 
aJl earthly hopes may perish, and fortune fade away, 
the true source of happiness is yet left us in our loving 
hearts — away down below, where the storms of the 
world cannot come." 

Mr. Milling bowed down his head before his child, 
and caught from her words a new hope, as if an angel 
had spoken. 

His wife returned to his side ; and, at her approach, 
Lily kissed her father^s heated brow and retired, turn- 
ing upon him her deep, intense glance, full of love and 
pity, as she disappeared. 

They sat long together in conference, the merchant 
and his wife ; for she was a woman who mingled no 
reproaches or invidious reflections in her counsel, and 
was an intelligent adviser in matters requiring pru- 
dence of judgment, and wisdom of forethought. She 
was a jewel to her husband, fully realizing the scriptural 
standard — a crown ! The result of their deliberation 
was that, if the matter should terminate as badly as was 
feared, everything should be given up to the creditors ; 
that, as honesty had been the corner-stone of the busi- 
ness of J. Milling & Co., it should not be disgraced by 
a dishonest termination. 



236 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

The next day the creditors of the firm were sum- 
moned to a meeting, and its affairs laid before them. 
Mr. Barrus, of the honse of Barrns & Emms, Bangor, 
was present with his claims, the large amount of which 
it was found impossible to meet ; and, as there were 
claims supposed to be held by other parties, as Mr. Bar- 
rus had suggested, the result was that the house of J. 
Milling & Co. failed, and the property was placed in the 
hands of assignees for settlement. Before Christmas 
the names of Partelot & Savage occupied the position 
of the once familiar name, they having purchased the 
business of the assignees, by the advice of Mr. Milling. 

It was a town talk for many days ; but, after a while, 
the waters of silence closed over the affair, as the waves 
enfold themselves over the scene where some gallant 
bark has gone down. 

CHAPTER III. 

THE GLOOMY CHRISTMAS. 

The large house that had been the home of Mr. Milling 
was now the home of another, and its former occupants, 
who had passed so many pleasant years beneath its roof, 
whose hearts were woven with it, as though it were a 
part of themselves, had removed to other quarters, more 
in keeping with their present circumstances. But a 
small remnant of his former wealth remained to Mr. Mil- 
ling. His fortune had crumbled beneath him like a shelf 
of sand, and he had gone down to a depth of ruin cor- 
responding with his former exaltation. His integrity 
was unimpaired in the estimation of those who best 
knew him ; but the story, gained circulation that he had 
been a party in the transaction that had ruined his 
house, and his presence on 'change was marked by a 
coldness on the part of many with whom he had for- 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 237 

merly been on the most intimate terms. His heart had 
sunk with the first blow ; but the discovery of his 
waning credit gave him the most pain. Where the 
stories originated, it was not known. They could not 
be traced to any reliable source, and worked with subtle 
and secret influence, until, unable to withstand the look 
of suspicion that was cast upon him, he left the scene 
of his former labors, a broken man. His mind was 
gloomy, almost morose, and even his family failed to 
awaken him to anything like his former cheerfulness. 
The feeling that was gnawing at his heart wore upon 
his frame, and it was evident that he was sinking be- 
neath the sorrow that was preying upon him. 

His wife endeavored by every means in her power to 
cheer him. Her words, however, were mechanical and 
worldly-wise, and had little effect. His oldest daughter 
said nothing. Her high spirit and pride sustained her 
in her new position. She had withdrawn from a society 
she still could have graced, from a sense of her fallen 
fortunes, and a determination to avoid all association 
that would remind her of them. She made no com- 
plaint ; but her heart was deeply touched by her fath- 
er's distress, surpassing even the keen sensibility felt at 
her lover's desertion — for that was subdued by the 
pride that filled her and gave her strength. 

Much talk to a grieving heart is an addition to its 
affliction. Even words of kindness are of non-effect. 
A tear, shed in sympathy, is better to the one who 
grieves than a whole vocabulary of terms. So felt Mr. 
Milling. The words his wife spoke were addressed to 
his ambition, mixed, occasionally, with half reproaches, 
that added bitterness to his despondency. There was 
but one comfort for him. His little Lily was ever by 
his side, by her attentions endeavoring to soothe him ; 



238 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

her face not gloomy with the clouds of disappointment, 
but radiant with love and faith. Her young eye saw 
beyond the present of earthly trial, and knew that 
through affliction alone could be won the crown of the 
faithful. Her voice was music to him, and when by her 
side his heart beat with a lighter pulsation. He was 
stricken so deeply, however, that even her ministrations 
could not bear him wholly up. He felt that he was done 
for earthy and that the world would be better to be rid 
of him — the hallucination of a morbid fancy. The feel- 
ing at length, by insidious advances, gained entire hold 
upon him ; his body gave way before it, and he was 
brought at last to a condition compelling him to take 
to his bed. The kindness of old friends — among whom 
were his successors, Partelot and Savage — failed to 
revive him, the assiduity of those around him was inef- 
fective, and Lily's face and Lily's voice alone gave him 
pleasure. It seemed now to his distempered fancy like 
the voice of one long gone before — a sister of his 
early years — and her eyes appeared to reflect the 
glories of the world to Avhich he was hastening. There 
were no tears wetting the face he saw, — the little face 
that bent over him, — but there was a sublime expres- 
sion resting there, as though she were an angel waiting 
patiently by the gates of time, to bear his soul to its 
immortal home — seeing the end of human woe from 
the beginning, and its need in the scheme of man's 
progression. 

It was Christmas, and the usual hilarity attending the 
day was observed. Parties were given in all directions, 
and the fires of the genial season burned brightly. But 
there was one home, that was wont to observe its fes- 
tivities^ now silent. Mr. Milhng was dying ! The angel 
had entered his abode, and waited for a little while ere 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 239 

he should clip the slender thread that bound him to life. 
His family ranged around his bed — Lily, with her 
solemn eyes, gazing upon him with an almost super- 
human earnestness and tenderness. Suddenly, the dying 
man revived from a stupor in which he had long lain. 
He turned his gaze with a meaningless expression upon 
those who surrounded his bed, until it rested upon Lily. 
His face brightened, and, seizing her hand with sudden 
ecstasy, he cried, " Welcome, sister ! I am ready." His 
hand fell upon the coverlet, and Mr. Milling was no 
more. 

The wife and eldest daughter were borne from the 
chamber. The earthly tie — the whole that they knew 
— was sundered, and the mortal mourned for mortality, 
the earth for the earthly. Lily, the delicate and beauti- 
ful, stood gazing calmly upon the wreck before her. 
The brightness of heaven was around her brow, and 
her face assumed the soft expression of an angel. 
Serene and calm she stood gazing down upon the im- 
movable features ; there was to her no division of the 
tender chord that had bound them — soul had been knit 
to soul, and in the mortal dissolution she felt that the 
sweet compact had not been interrupted. In this con- 
sciousness there was no room for terror or despair. 
Something like a tear trembled in her eye ; but there 
was a joy in it that gave it a glory like a star, as passed 
before her young vision the remembered kindness and 
devotion of the one who lay there still and cold. But 
the triumph that burned in her expression dried up the 
tear, as the sun dries up the dew that the night, in its 
darkness, has wept. 

She passed from the chamber to make way for those 
whose duty it was to prepare the body for sepulture, 
and proceeded to her mother's room to endeavor, by her 



240 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

attentions, to soothe her grief. This was an impossible 
task. Outward comfort in such a crisis is unavaihng ; 
and, though ministerial consolation was tendered, the 
blackness of darkness rested over the tomb, unpen- 
etrated by a hopeful ray. They had been of the world's 
people, and their spiritual light was obscured by the 
mist of materialism ; and the ministers, themselves as 
spiritually dull, knew no solace beyond the mere word 
of hope — no living faith, no sweet trust in the future 
of life and love. 

Mr. Milling was buried with becoming honors. Many 
of his old friends attended his funeral, and paid him the 
respect, as they rode to his grave, of talking over again 
the transaction by which he was ruined, the slanders 
that had followed it, the credit of his successors, and 
the probable condition of his family, ending with pro- 
found expressions of regret for the unpleasant affair, 
and the melancholy circumstances in which his family 
had been left. The cheap sympathy was all expended, 
and the price of stocks mingled with the regretful 
words awakened by the demise of the unfortunate 
merchant. 

When the melancholy cortege returned to the house, 
Mr. Partelot stood by the door of the carriage contain- 
ing the family, and handed them out. His eyes were 
red with weeping, and his hand trembled as he took 
the hand of Matilda Milling within his own. Following 
them into the house, he proffered his condolence with 
them in their loss, and assured them of his life-long de- 
votion to their interest, from a sense of gratitude to 
Mr. MiUing, and a personal regard for themselves. All 
that he knew of prosperity, he said, had been attained 
through his beloved employer, and he could not do 
enough in return for such kindness. His words were 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 241 

full of sweetness, and fell upon the stricken hearts of 
the family like the small rain upon thirsty ground, and 
grief broke out anew as he spoke. When he left, it 
seemed to the mother and eldest daughter that some 
exalted being from another sphere had paid them a visit 
with the special object of comforting them. Lily had 
heard him not. Her eyes were directed towards the 
western sky, glowing with the brightness of wintry sun- 
set, and were drinking in the inspiration of the glory 
that rested there, filling her with peace and joy. 

Turning to her mother, she threw her arms about her 
neck, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead. 

" Mother ! " said she, " is it not selfish to cry for those 
who have left us ? Does n't my father still live — more 
loving and more beautiful than before ? " 

" I hope so," was the reply. 

" Then, why mourn ? We are told to rejoice with 
those that rejoice ; and, if my father is living, should 
we not rejoice that it is so ? His cares and pains are 
all over for earth, unless, seeing the grief which en- 
shrouds us, he feels sad at our weakness. 0, mother, I 
am but a simple child, and can teach you nothing ; but 
my spirit feels much. It goes with yonder sinking sun 
to its resting-place, and sees a glorious to-morrow fol- 
lowing the night that intervenes ; so the resurrection 
•follows the darkness of the grave, as you have told me. 
Be comforted, my mother." 

" Child, you do not know what you have lost ! " said 
the poor woman. " It does me good to nurse my grief." 
She indulged in a fresh paroxysm, and Lily left her 
to time and self-pride to work the peace that she had 
failed to implant. 

Thus was the dreary Christmas passed, and the hearth 

and hearts of the household of the late Mr. Milling were 
21 



242 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

desolate and wretched^ with scarce a liope to flash its 
light forward Tipon the darkness that lay beyond. 

CHAPTER lY. 

BUSINESS AID EFFORT ^- MYSTERY. 

Mr. Milling had been dead a year, and had he been a 
dozen beneath the sod he conld scarcely have been 
more effectually forgotten than he was in the little 
twelvemonth l)y those who had formerly associated 
with him, and shared his friendship and confidence. 
Not a word had been heard of Mr. Upshur, and the 
house of Partelot & Savage enjoyed the reputation of 
being worthy successors of the late house. But little 
change had taken place in the business. The old 
clerks were employed, as formerly, at their long-accus- 
tomed places. Even the two heads of the house, as 
formerly, spent many hours by the desks at which they 
had commenced. 

" The Millings have become much reduced," said Mr. 
Partelot, one afternoon, pausing from his writing. 

" Indeed ! " said Savage, gruffly, not stopping to utter 
the word. 

" Yes ; I called upon them, the other day, to offer 
them assistance, and found Matilda teaching music." 

" She shows her sense, then," said Savage, '' better 
than half of those who are circumstanced as she is. I 
like her for it." 

" Why don't you ever go and see them. Savage ? " 
asked his partner. " They are wondering at your 
strangeness. You have n't been to see them since the 
funeral. We should try and do all the good we can." 

'' Small good I can do them ! " was the caustic reply. 
" They don't want to see me — they never did. Or at 
least only one — the youngest," 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 243 

" Ah, yes, Lily," said Mr. Partelot. " She is a strange 
girl — a perfect marvel ; and the manner in which she 
improves in her education is astonishing." 

" Yes ; and it has never yet been discovered at whose 
expense she is being educated. - There is a perfect mys 
tery about it. Did you ever hear about it ? " 

" Never." 

" Well, the manner of it was this : Mr. Milling had 
not been dead more than a month, before his wife 
received an anonymous letter, professing to be from an 
old friend of Mr. Milling, generously offering to pay for 
the education of little Lily, besides the other expenses 
of her maintenance, the only condition being that no 
inquiry should be made concerning the writer, and that 
all sense of obligation should be banished, as it was but 
a mere return for favor received. At first they were 
reluctant to accept, but friends persuaded them to 
regard the delicacy of the proffer, and an answer was 
returned to the post-office address given in the note, 
thanking the Hberal friend for his kindness, and con- 
senting to his proposition. For nearly a year teachers 
have visited her constantly, — • coming mysteriously as 
the slaves of the lamp and ring. No questions are 
asked them, as it would violate the condition, and thus 
it goes on. Strange, is n't it ? " 

" Humph ! The same old story of romantic folly," 
said Savage. " Some fellow, probably, is doing it, who 
has more money than brains. Were Lily not a child, 
one might fancy there was an ulterior motive beside 
the one of mere education. Can you not guess who this 
benefactor is ?" 

Mr. Savage looked at his partner steadily, and that 
worthy young man said, laughingly. 



244 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

*' * Nay, never shake thy gory locks on me ! 
Thou canst not say I did it.' 

My province extends no further than to be a friend 
of the family, and all I can do for them is simply to 
advise. I wish you would go up and see them." 

^' I tell you, Partelotj' they don't want to see me. It 
is you, the smooth-tongued and light-footed, that is 
wanted. My croaking notes would set their teeth on 
edge. Leave me with the merchandise ; bale-goods are 
not so sensitive." 

Mr. Savage turned away as he spoke, to attend to 
some other business, and an expression very like 
" churl " trembled on Mr. Partelot's lips. That gentle- 
man felt satisfied at that moment that he was very un- 
fortunate in having so unsympathetic a partner, and 
drew some self-gratulatory comparisons betwixt him- 
self and Mr. Savage, that wfere in no wise flattering to 
the junior member of the firm. 

The death of Mr. Milling had, indeed, left his family 
very poor. Everything but what the law strictly 
allowed them had gone to the creditors, and they found 
themselves reduced to the alternative of working for a 
living. The proud Matilda — her pride lifting her 
above the degradation of dependence — brought the 
resources of a cultivated mind to the business of life, 
and, through the assistance of the few friends who 
remained true to them, procured pupils for the piano, 
and work for her needle, that gave a moderate income. 
The greatest care was on account of Lily. She was 
likely to be a burden because of her helplessness. 
There was small sympath}^ between her and her mother 
and sister, who deemed her a dreamer ; and she moved 
about the house in listless inactivity, her large eyes full 
of angelic significance, and her heart full of loving im- 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 245 

pulses. It was at this time that her mother received the 
following note : 

" My dear Madam : I am a man of few words — a 
friend of your late husband — with means sufficient to 
carry out what I propose. I wish to return a portion 
of the benefit he conferred upon me, a poor boy. I am 
aware of your family circumstances, and would relieve 
a portion of your burden. Your youngest daughter 
should receive an education. I have the ability to 
secure it, and would deem it a favor to be allowed to 
incur the expense attending it. The only condition I 
propose is that no sense of obligation may be allowed 
to overpower you, and no effort be made to discovei 
the writer. Your obedient servant, 

" Memory. 

" P. S. Address me through the post-office, and keep 
my cognomen a secret from all." 

'^ "Well, this is a mystery ! " said Mrs. Milling, as she 
read the note, and handed it to her oldest daughter. 
" Who can it be ? " 

The daughter scrutinized the letter for a long time in 
silence, in an endeavor, if possible, to detect the writing. 
At last she said, 

" I strongly suspect it is Mr. Partelot, who takes this 
delicate way of doing us a kindness. Shall you accept 
the proposition ? " 

" Not without advice. We should be particular about 
these things. The world is very censorious." 

" The world ! " said the daughter, bitterly ; " what is 
the world to us, if it cares nothing for us but to find 
fault with us ? If it be Mr. Partelot, his kindness de- 
serves a corresponding return." 
21* 



246 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

" But if it be not his ? " replied Mrs. Milling. '^ I de- 
clare I do not know what to do. I must ask advice. 
Shall I of Mr. Partelot?" 

" By no means/' was the reply ; " anybody but him. 
Ask Mr. Urbin, father's old friend. He will advise for 
the best. I will endeavor to learn from Mr. Partelot if 
he wrote the letter." 

Accordingly, on Mr. Partelot's next visit, the daughter 
mentioned the fact of the letter, — reserving the secret 
of the cognomen, — concluding with the remark, sig- 
nificantly made, 

" Tax your memory^ my dear sir, and see if you recall 
none who would be likely to do this thing." 

She bent her eyes on him with an expression imply- 
ing that she suspected his participation in the trans- 
action, which he read at a glance. He lowered his 
eyes beneath her look, and asked her if she suspected 
him. 

She confessed that she did. 

" Then," said he, " it places me in a position where I 
shall claim the privilege of the doubt. I shall not con- 
fess, and shall claim that you intimate your suspicions 
of me to no one, for a very particular reason." 

He took her hand in his as he spoke, and kissed it 
very respectfully. She withdrew her hand, but a flush 
of pleasure passed over her features. Her love for 
Upshur had been but a superficial feeling, with which 
temper and pride had more to do than the softer emo- 
tion of the heart. This pride was wounded by his de- 
sertion, this temper was aroused by his perfidy ; and she 
had banished him from her heart with no regret, or even 
reluctance. The supposed discovery of a benefactor 
had excited her gratitude, — a kindred feeling with love, 
— and she felt a glow of happiness that had not been 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 247 

known to her for months. Partelot became a constant 
visitor at the house of Mrs. Milling, and his attentions 
to the fair Matilda were of the most assiduous charac- 
ter. People talked of it as a fixed thing that it was to 
be " a match." 

It was about this time that the conversation occurred 
above recorded. Mr. Savage knew nothing of his part- 
ner's affair with the daughter of his old employer, and 
Mr. Partelot had reserved it as a surprise for him, 
just as Savage was called away by business. After a 
while he returned, when Mr. P., resting a moment from 
his writing, said, 

'^ By the way. Savage, I 've got a secret for you." 

" Well ? " said his partner. 

" AVhat should you think if I was to tell you that I 
was going to be married ? " 

"I should say very little about it. It ^s no business 
of mine. Your wife wouldn't become a member of the 
firm, nor a part of the stock." 

"Very good! That's true. Savage; and yet she is 
one that you may be interested in. Suppose I should 
tell you that it was Mr. Milling's daughter, eh ? " 

" What, Lily ? " was asked in a tone of excitement, 
Mr. Savage starting up as he uttered the words. 

" No, no ; Lily 's but a child. 'T is the beautiful 
Matilda, man. Ha ! I see the savage is moved. She 
has given me encouragement to hope that she will 
become Mrs. Partelot. Fine woman. Savage." 

" But do you love her, Partelot? " 

" What a question to a man who has been dancing- 
attendance upon a woman for a year, studying how to 
love her ! " 

" Love is a lesson, however, not to be learnt. It is 



248 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

imparted, and few breasts are warmed by it through 
education." 

" Bah, Savage ! " said Partelot ; " you are a croaker. 
Men learn to love as they learn to eat olives, ^T is un- 
palatable, perhaps, at first, but after a while one gets 
used to it." 

" Humph ! " said the imperturbable partner, and turned 
to his ledger. 

Time moved on, and brought again the cheerful 
season of Christmas, with its pleasant associations and 
reiinions, and delightful surprises; and the house of 
Partelot & Savage still maintained its integrity. 

CHAPTER V. 

CHRISTMAS PRESENTS — A DISCOVERT. 

" What can this be ? " said Mrs. Milling, as she re- 
turned from the door on Christmas morning, bearing a 
small square package in her hand. " For you, Matilda, 
I dare say." 

The package was unrolled, and was found to contain 
a little rosewood casket of rare beauty, upon opening 
which a beautiful necklace of oriental pearls was dis- 
covered, pendent from which was a cross of the same, 
arched by a golden ray, on which was wrought in deli- 
cate letters the word " Memory ! " On a card in the 
box was the simple name, '' Lily." 

" It is for Lily," said her sister, with a tone of 
marked disappointment. " Why did he send it to Jier ? 
It must be a mistake." 

She threw the bracelet into the box, with a petulant 
gesture, and handed it to her mother. Lily was called, 
and, to her great surprise, was presented with the 
beautiful gift. The fair girl stood as if spell-bound a 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND • EARTS. 249 

moment, when, kneeling by her sister's side, she laid 
the box upon her lap, and bowed her head before her, 
saying, 

^' Sister, it is for you. You alone are worthy to wear 
it. My heart accords it to you." 

The proud girl threw it from her, with a disdainful 
motion, and said, sharply, 

" Never wiU I accept it, nor wear it ! Such trifling I 
will not endure ! " 

She rose from her seat as she spoke, and left the 
room. Lily continued to kneel by the chair she had 
just left, and when she arose she found herself alone. 
The box was at her feet, opened, and the necklace Isij 
upon the carpet. She looked upon it with a feeling of 
sorrow, half regarding it as the means of a new misery, 
when the card on which her name was written attracted 
her attention. She examined it minutely, and then pro- 
ceeded to where the letter was kept that had proposed 
to pay fox her education, and compared the writing. It 
was the same, beyond a doubt. But, though one wrote 
them both, who the one was was a matter still of im- 
penetrable mystery. 

Mr. Savage had never been at the home of the Mil- 
lings since the death of his old patron. His diffident 
and abrupt nature made him withdraw himself from 
other besides business association, and, though he enter- 
tained as far as he could a friendly feeling for the 
family, he did not dare to intrude himself upon their 
time. His partner's confession had awakened in him, 
apparently, a new interest for them ; and, one day, in 
response to the question why he never visited them, 
he promised to join his partner there in a visit on 
Christmas night. 

The night came, and found Mr. Partelot at Mrs. Mil- 



250 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

ling's house. The little parlor was neat and bright. A 
wood-fire burnt briskly upon the andirons, and flashed a 
ruddy light around the room. An air of comfort pre- 
vailed, that mocked the inclemency of the night outside. 
Presently the door opened, and Matilda entered. Her 
brow was gloomy and dark, and the welcome she ex- 
tended was very stately. 

" I 'm sorry," said he, ^Hhat Savage is n't coming. I 
don't see what is the matter. He has just sent me a 
note, saying he is unavoidably called away to Mulberry- 
street on business." 

Some brief expression of regret alone was uttered in 
response. He resumed : 

" A strange man that — the most singular man I ever 
knew." 

" I hope he is sincere/' said she, with a significant 
tone. 

'^ I think he is," said he. 

" Is he accustomed to pretend an attachment for one 
person, and then to insult her by bestowing gifts upon 
her sister and slighting her ? " 

'^ Upon my word, I think not ; I never had the least 
idea he was such a person. By the way, I have brought 
you a small token for the festive season." 

He took a small paper from his pocket, and handed it 
to her. She unrolled the package, and a pair of lady's 
gloves met her view. 

" Thank you," said she, with seeming delight. "Do 
you present these to me at the invoice price, or retail ? " 

" We have them invoiced to us ; but why do you 
ask ? " 

" Only to know how to compare your present to me 
with that of yours to my sister." 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 251 

" To your sister ! " said lie, witti a tone of alarm. " I 
have made none.'' 

•' Then you did not make the generous proposition 
Avith regard to Lily's education ? " 

" I never said that I did," replied he, nervously twist- 
ing Savage's note around his finger. 

'^ No," said she, " but you allowed me to infer that 
you did ; and the man who can meanly take to himself 
the credit that belongs to another is below contempt." 

" Well, madam," said he, " then, as I am below con- 
tempt, I am below your graciousness, and hence am not 
worthy of you. Good-evening." 

He took his hat and passed out, as a butterfly van- 
ishes at the approach of a chilly leaving the fair being 
that he was to have soon claimed as his own to a new 
mortification. Her mother and sister soon after found 
her in tears, and another dreary Christmas folded its 
wings over the home of the Millings. 

The next morning Lily was alone in the parlor, en- 
gaged in her studies, when she saw a paper upon the 
floor. A thrill passed over her frame as she took it in 
her hand, — an indefinable comminghng of fear and joy. 
She opened it, and read : 

" Dear Partelot : Please excuse me to the family. 
I am suddenly called to Mulberry-street. My sister has 
arrived from the country. My regards to Mrs. M., and 
Misses Matilda and Lily. Yours, Savage." 

^•It is the same writing as the letter and the card," 
said she ; " there is no mistaking the word ' Lily.' But 
shall I betray the secret thus confided to me, though 
unsought? I will regard the delicacy that prompted it, 



252 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS A2?D HEARTS. 

and keep the secret hidden. And this is the nature 
that has been looked upon as base, uncouth; this is he 
who has been treated by those he has so much bene- 
fited as a clown ! " 

The fair girl had forgotten the little seed of kindness 
sown in his heart a long time before, — sown as uncon- 
sciously as the birds spread luxuriousness and beauty 
in their flight, and make hitherto barren and inacces- 
sible places pleasant and fruitful. She had forgotten 
- - so unconscious was she — the words of kindness ad- 
dressed to him in the library of their old home ; but 
acts and words of kindness, springing from the God in 
man, partake of the eternal nature of God, and cannot 
die. 

Mr. Partelot came no more, and his name was not 
mentioned in the circle where he had formerly been so 
constant a visitor. But bitter tears were shed for him, 
as men bend over a grave and weep, by eyes that had 
once beamed for him so brightly. It was worse than 
the grave, for the grave is honest ; there is no treach- 
ery there to add poignancy to grief, — and there is a 
resurrection beyond, but none to buried friendship. 

And Lily kept her secret locked within her breast, 
nourishing a gratitude, approaching to idolatry, for the 
noble being who was doing good secretty, expecting 
and hoping for no return, and even incurring the sus- 
picion of churlishness from those around him. She grew 
in grace of mind and body, and her eyes lost none of 
the spiritual power that seemed to enter within the 
veil. 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 253 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE CONCLUSION, IN WHICH HAPPENS : 

The house of Partelot & Savage was the best house 
upon the street. Their paper was as good as gold, and 
both members of the firm were esteemed rich. But the 
repulse of Mr. Partelot at the hands of Miss Milling 
could not be healed by time or business, and, after 
enduring it for a time, he thought he would try a 
European tour. It was not that his heart was touched, 
— that could not be reached, — but his ambition was 
thwarted. Men talked about it, and his quiet partner 
looked, in his disordered eyes, very knowing. So much 
did these things prey upon him that he concluded to 
sell out. He made Mr. Savage an offer to place the 
business in his hands for a consideration, which was 
accepted, and Mr. Partelot left for the Old World. 

Mr. Milling had been dead six years, and his family 
remained the same as at the beginning of their desola- 
tion, save that time had done its work with them. But 
time had been gracious with Lily. Her beautiful form 
was a marvel of grace, her face was as bright as an 
angel's, and her mind endowed with qualities that placed 
her far before those of her own age and condition. All 
loved her for her virtues ; but there was one, of all the 
rest, whom she sighed to reach, — to throw herself at 
his feet and confess her indebtedness, and devote her 
life to his service. He had been prompt, year by year, 
in his strange benevolence, and year by year she had 
received some elegant token of his care, all bearing the 
same motto, " Memory ^^^ and all addressed simply 
" Lily." Safely had she kept that secret so strangely 
gained, amid the often-expressed wonder concerning it 

from those near to her. While her whole nature was as 
22 



254 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

transparent as the day to loving eyes, she kept this 
httle thought enshrined in a holy of holies, within 
which none might enter but Him who readeth all secrets. 

The singularity that had characterized her earlier 
years marked her growth. There were few who 
understood her, few that she recognized with the en- 
dearment of friendship ; and, although her companions 
loved her, it was with a feeling allied to awe, so dif- 
ferent was she from them. Of those who knew her the 
least were her own mother and sister. They ascribed 
to indolence the listlessness which at times seemed to 
mark her conduct, and to fanaticism the lifting up of 
spirit, which they comprehended not. Her words fell 
like music about her path, and, though she had no 
wealth to give, her " God bless you " thrilled the heart 
of those who received it like a heavenly benison. 

Among her friends was one, with whom she had but 
recently become acquainted, a little older than herself 
Endowed with more positiveness of character, she was 
a desirable companion for Lily ; and, drawn together by 
sympathetic proclivities, their companionship was of 
the most agreeable description. Agnes resided in a 
distant part of the city, and Lily had never visited hei 
in her home, although they frequently met at the houses 
of mutual friends. She had frequently spoken of her 
brother, of whom she was very fond ; but Lily had never 
met with him. 

It was again the Christmas time of year, and Agnes 
Loyle was going to give a select party on Christmas 
night. Cards were despatched, and preparations made 
suited to the occasion. Music and conversation and social 
pleasure were to form its essential features. Its ulterior 
object, however, was a deeply-conceived and womanly 
scheme of bringing Lily Milling and her brother to- 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 255 

gether, though this was hidden from all but herself. 
Lily, retiring and reserved, would have been better 
content to have enjoyed her friend's society alone, but 
she gave her assent to the arrangement. She was to be 
accompanied by her sister. 

The night was pleasant. The moon and stars glit- 
tered in the frosty atmosphere, and the merry sleigh- 
bells made music as the fleet steeds dashed on over the 
flinty snow. The vehicle which bore Lily and Matilda 
Milling stopped before a small but elegant house, bril- 
liantly lighted, and seemingly the abode of comfort and 
taste. Entering, they were met by Agnes herself, who 
conducted her guests into the parlor, where several of 
the company had assembled, and where the rest soon 
after joined them. 

" Miss Matilda, shall I make you acquainted with my 
brother, Mr. Savage ? Lily, my brother, Mr. Savage," 
was said in the pleasant voice of Agnes Loyle. But 
with far difi"erent feelings was the name heard. In one 
heart it was associated with crushed hopes and buried 
pride ; in the other, with veneration, and love, and grati- 
tude ; but by both it was received with evident emotion. 
It was an incomprehensible mystery that George Sav- 
age should be the brother of Agnes Loyle, and yet so 
it was ; she was a sister by a second marriage. She 
was his only sister, and he loved her devotedly. When 
their mother died, some years before, he sent for her to 
come and live with him ; and she arrived in town on a 
Christmas day, and had been instaUed mistress of the 
little house in Mulberry-street. 

^' The Misses Milling will remember in me an old 
acquaintance," said he, with a smile; "and," he added, 
to Lily, with a softened tone "my memory recalls a 



256 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

sweet cKild, who was as much of an angel in character 
as she is now angehc as a woman." 

He took her hand and kissed it, as he spoke. 

Bravo, Mr. Savage ! The ice has melted suddenly , 
the ungentle and uncourtly man has bowed before a 
little girl. What would Mr. Partelot say to see it ? He 
once called you a churl. What would the world say to 
see it ? It has called you a churl for years. Mr. Sav- 
age cared not for Partelot, — for the world, — but he 
cared for Lily, the sweetest flower that ever blossomed 
in a human garden. 

" You are confused at finding me the brother of 
Agnes," said he ; ^^ she is my half-sister, and I need not 
praise her goodness to those who know her so well. 
She had advantages of cultivation that I never knew, 
and is the redeeming feature of my home, and gives it 
its refinement." 

How gentlemanly he spoke, the uncouth and churlish 
Mr. Savage ! The visitors scarcely spoke, all busied 
with their thoughts, when the voice of Agnes broke the 
spell. 

"Come, come, there are sports going on here that 
rival those of the Olympiad, and are as rich with forfeits 
as an argosy. Come and help us." 

The Christmas games had commenced, and fun and 
frolic ruled the hour. Young men and young women 
vied in their playful zeal ; but, soon wearied with the ex- 
citement, the noisy games broke up, and charades and 
enigmas were personated. 

" Let us try fortune-telling," said one of the party ; 
'^ some rare sport comes out of it sometimes." 

Fortune-telling was at once decided upon ; but who 
would be the fortune-teller? Several refused to per- 
sonate the eldritch dame, when Lily was asked to 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 257 

assume the wand of inspiration, to which she assented. 
It was deemed strange that she should ; but the very 
singularity of her consenting accounted for it. She 
accordingly was installed in a large old-fashioned chair, 
and before her came those whose fate she was to 
determine. And wise were her words, and momentous 
the matters of advice or prophecy that crossed her lips. 
With intuitive keenness she enlarged on matrimonial 
probabilities and collateral contingencies. The gentle 
Lily's witchery was perfect and irresistible, and crowned 
by an applause that knew no bound. 

" And what has the prophetess to say for me ? " said 
George Savage, standing before the Power. 

She gazed upon him with an emotion imperfectly con- 
cealed, before she trusted her voice to speak ; and then 
she spoke low, in a manner that those around could not 
hear. 

" I have to say for you," said she, " that the hidden 
charity of a life, and its unselfish devotion to others' 
good, has a reward beyond that waiting upon its grati 
fication." 

He started, as she spoke. 

" What means the enchantress ? " said he, endeavor- 
ing to assume his former light-hearted and indifferent 
tone. 

" I mean," continued she, "that the flowers one plants 
by the way of life do not die in meaningless beauty, 
but yield a fragrant adoration for the kindness that 
planted them ; that a mind, enkindled by the loving and 
secret care that sought to hide its own benevolence, 
would be unworthy of its development, did it not show 
by its gratitude that it treasured the act in memory !^^ 

She whispered the words in his ear, her face glowing 
with the fulness of her delighted heart, and, lifting a 

22* 



^58 CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 

little cross that lay upon her breast, suspended from a 
string of pearls about her neck, she pointed significantly 
to the word " memory ! " 

Mr. Savage turned as pale as death, for a moment, and 
then a burning flush passed over his features. 

" What did she say ? " said many voices, eagerly. 

" Nothing," said he ; " that is, nothing which need be 
spoken of. I make way for any one, and truly believe 
in the sibylline character of the one you have installed." 

The Christmas evening sped merrily, and joyful hearts 
throbbed in delightful harmony with the pulsing mo- 
ments. Mr. Savage was silent and gravely pleasant ; 
but there was a satisfaction on his face that dispelled 
all idea that pain made him grave. He sought con 
stantly the side of the graceful Lily, who seemed im- 
bued with life scarce her own. At last, when away 
from the gay revellers, he asked her to explain the dis- 
covery of his secret. She did so, and told him her own 
feelings upon becoming its recipient; and, as she dwelt 
upon her perception of his delicacy in the affair, and 
her warm appreciation, he clasped her hand, and, drop- 
ping upon his knee by her side, said : 

" The sweet budding Lily of my boyhood I have long 
worn in my heart secretly. 0, could I but hope to wear 
the flower, in its expanded beauty, there ! " 

Her hand, not withdrawn, trembled in his, as he spoke, 
and he accepted the emotion as an answer to his prayer. 

" My secret has been my bane," said he, with her 
hand still in his. "I have avoided meeting you, for 
fear of betraying it — watching you, however, as you 
have grown in grace and beauty, and loving you at a 
distance, until my angelic sister, who guessed my feel- 
ing, though she did not the secret, has brought us 
together." 



CHRISTMAS HEARTHS AND HEARTS. 259 

Lily was happy, and true enough to tell him that she 
loved him, and had long done so, but without knowing 
him, save as one true heart knows another ; and was true 
enough, also, to tell him she would be his wife when a 
year or two more should better fit her for the honorable 
station, so little understood, even Avith six thousand 
scriptural years resting on it. 

And thus ended the Christmas, with mirth, and love, 
and hope, to sanctify it. Ilemory became present joy, 
and an augury of future happiness. The years rolled 
on, and Lily lived the angel, rather than the wife, of 
Savage, — the synonym of the true woman who truly 
loves, — whose love is divine, and allows no grosser 
element to mingle with it. Based on respect and grat- 
itude, it was a lifetime wave of devotion and trustful- 
ness, bearing their bark of happiness on to the heaven 
of rest. 

Mr. Partelot returned home, after an absence of some 
years, bringing with him a foreign wife. He became 
again engaged in business, and is now regarded as an 
excellent man, — oily and profuse, — though he is as hol- 
low-hearted as ever. Matilda married a seafaring gen- 
tleman, and wears the largest crinoline on the street. 
Mrs. Milling, as if having nothing else worth living for 
after she had seen her daughters disposed of, died and 
A\^as buried. Mr. Upshur was never heard of, and it 
was supposed that he was devoured by the Fejee Island- 
ers, as it was ascertained, from a returned missionary, 
that one answering his description had been served up 
about that time. 

Our story has no thrilling interest ; but this may be 
gathered from it — that scenes are enacted at our doors, 
which, could we but see them, would be found to be 
great dramas, where the heart plays its part, performing 



260 HIGHER. 

its role with painfulness or joy. But few spectators 
are allowed to enter the portals, where no passport but 
human sympathy can find admittance, and the curtain 
often shuts down in darkness on a tragedy of mined 
hopes. 

HIGHER. 

Pleased with our loves and low desires, 

We sit like children midst the flowers. 
No thought our listless soul inspires. 

Or wakes to life its nobler powers ; 
We feel the sunshine round us glow. 

And smile in imbecile content. 
Letting the golden moments go 

That heaven for ripe fruition meant. 

As one by one our idols fade. 

We moping sit and weakly sigh 
That earthly loves so frail are made. 

That earthly hopes should ever die ! 
Amid the beauteous wreck we mourn 

Our altars prostrate in the dust. 
And to the opening future turn 

With heart of doubting and distrust. 

Captive we lie in flowery chains. 

By enervating pleasure bound. 
Forgetting life's broad battle-plains, 

Where work and its reward are found — 
Forgetting for the grovelling toys, 

Around our feet as meshes spread. 
E'er to look upward for the joys 

That hang in clusters o'er our head. 

How idle we to strive to hold 

The shadows that our joys eclipse. 
Or eat the fruit of seeming gold 

That breaks in ashes on our lips. 
When ready to our outstretched hand 

Celestial fruits their claims commend, 
The product of that promised land 

To which all manly strivings tend ! 



REVERIES. 261 



REVERIES. 

Right before the window yonder is a wall, left bare 
and naked by the removal of a building torn down to 
make way for modern improvements. Upon the wall, 
clambering up over its surface in tortuous winding, is 
the mark of an old chimney-flue, black and sooty with 
the accumulative smoke of years. It is not a very 
beautiful object to contemplate, but it thrusts itself 
upon the vision, and will not down at our bid, because, 
probably, it can't get down. There 's a desolateness 
about the wall, and we count the places where the 
beams, that supported the floor, entered it, and extended 
along in tiers like the port-holes in the side of a ship-of- 
war; and we sit looking out upon it, while fancy recon- 
structs the old edifice, and peoples it again, and makes 
it all full of bustle and life. Piece by piece the old 
structure goes up, and we move among its living occu- 
pants — old fashioned, maybe, and quaint in dress, but 
with the same heart underneath all — and sit with them 
in the low-studded rooms by the side of the old fire- 
place, of which yonder is the fine. They burnt wood- 
fires then, that crackled and blazed upon the hearth, 
and sent their cheerful warmth out into the rooms, and 
flashed in ruddy light upon as pleasant faces as one 
could desire to see — illuminating the wainscot, and the 
ancient furniture, and the plate that shone upon the 
side-board. We hear again the pleasant joke, followed 
by the laugh that circles the band, and the repartee 
that sparkles like the fire-light, or the bright eyes that 
reflect its beams. That is punch — a jolly and gener- 
ous bowl of it — that stands upon the table, sending up 
its steamy and savory breath; and the silver ladle above 
its brim is a quaint old thing that has been in the family 



262 OLD AND YOUNG. 

for many years, and stands up with a consciousness of 
importance that is delightful to see. All partake — the 
old and the young — and beautiful lips press the gob- 
let's brim, nor think shame of it, though modern usage 
might condemn it ; but those were rum days. That old 
hearth was, doubtless, the scene of many tender epi- 
sodes — shut out, however, from gaze by the roseate 
screen which delicacy wove in the days of their enact- 
ment. But fancy enters the veil, and the sigh and the 
tear, the kiss and the vow, are things of now, redolent 
with the sweetness of yesterday's love. The voices 
of children sound around the old dark hearth, and the 
gentle tones of age in wise counsel give serenity and 
sanctity to the whole. And grief obtrudes its pictures, 
thrusting the bier and the pall amid the roses and the 
myrtles, and a skeleton hand writes ^^Deatli " upon the 
wall opposite where the wood-fire brightens and flashes. 
What a queer train of fancies has the old wall conjured 
up ! But, as we gaze, the fabric falls piece by piece 
away ; the scene fades out ; the murmur of voices be- 
comes again the familiar sounds of trade ; the fire is 
quenched by the snow that drips upon it ; positive 
bricks take the place of unsubstantial fancies, and the 
flue, black and repulsive, stares us again in the face, a 
cold and cheerless presentment of desolation. 



OLD AND YOUNG. 



.The term young is used in contradistinction with 
old, and, as applied to young people, refers only to 
the condition of juvenility. There be, however, some 
young people who never are young, and old ones who 
never are old, where the two states appear to have 
been transposed. We often meet with such strangely 



THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 263 

old children that they seem from their cradles to have 
stepped right over the sunny land of youth into matur- 
ity. We are startled at their wisdom, and listen to their 
old words as to the teachings of an oracle, deeming 
them influenced by some mysterious power. We can- 
not treat them as children, nor pet them, as we think 
that Socrates or Plato may have hid themselves in the 
infantile organism, and stand ready to launch upon us 
some abstruse question in metaphysics. The young-old 
people are those who have, all their lives, kept their 
feelings young by active sympathy, and love, and kind- 
ness ; and it is very beautiful to witness such as in this 
very latest season of life enjoy this Indian summer of 
the soul. The tenderest and the most mature do hom- 
age to such, and we draw towards them as we draw 
towards a shrine full of beautiful relics. This condition 
of youth in age is too rarely met with. The world 
comes soon between the soul and its better self, and 
the fermentation of care, and strife, and toil, sours the 
milk of kindness in the nature, and men grow crabbed 
and miserable as they grow old, when they should, in 
tranquil pleasure, be like the going down of the sun, 
calm and undisturbed. 



THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 

Down the dark valley, alone, alone. 

Has our white-winged dove in her beauty flown ; 

Her tender eyes that shone so bright 

Have closed forever to earthly light ; 

She has left the love that was round her thrown, 

And down the valley has fled, alone. 

There were bitter tears when she passed away — 
A sad, sad cloud obscured our day ! 



264 THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW. 

She had twined herself round each loving heart. 
Till she seemed of its very self a part ; 
0, how we loved her ! — but she has flown 
Down the dark valley — alone, alone. 

She was but a fragile and beautiful thing, 
A blossom to bloom in the lap of Spring ; 
The noonday heat with its feveiish glow, 
And the chilly breath of the wintry snow, 
She could not abide, and thus has flown 
Down the dark valley — alone, alone, 

0, dark to us doth the valley appear. 

And we shrink aghast from its shadows drear ; 

The earthly sense is chilled by the gloom 

Of the sombre midnight of the tomb ; — 

Thus we gave her up, while our hearts made moan, 

As she went down the valley — alone, alone. 

Alone, all alone ! but beyond the night 
Of the darkened vale is a radiant light, 
That breaks from above with diviner ray 
Than shiues the glory of solar day, 
Which springs from God's eternal throne. 
And lights the valley she trod alone ! 

And seraph hands in joyfulness hold 
The little wanderer from our fold ; 
Her gentle feet shall feel no harm, 
Sustained by the angelic arm. 
And brighter than the sun .e'er shone 
Is she who passed down the valley alone. 



THE MODEL HUSBAND, 265 



THE MODEL HUSBAND. 

Mr. Blifkins is a social and genial man. He belongs 
to a number of associations, that require his absence 
from home occasionally, and there are times when he 
chooses to indulge in a little sit-down with his friends, 
and enjoy for a time an abandon of care, whether of a 
business or of a domestic nature. Mr. Blifkins has one 
of the best of wives. She is exemplary in all the walks 
of life, and fully up to the Solomon standard of domes- 
tic excellence, as set forth in the thirty-first chapter of 
Proverbs. There is but one thing in the way of Mr. 
Blifkins' entire felicity, and that is her disposition to 
measure IMr. B.'s grain by her own bushel, so to speak, 
and because she is perfect, and feels no drawing to- 
wards the pursuits of her amiable husband. Preferring 
her own home to everything else in the world, and 
knowing no desire or wish beyond it, she expects Blif- 
kins to be the duplicate of herself. Hence, without 
meaning anything unkind, she presumes occasionally to 
lecture her spouse, and wonders that he should go and 
sleep with the children rather than hear lessons so well 
intended. These lessons afflict poor Blifkins, who loves 
his wife and loves his children, but he has a love for 
friends likewise, and does not believe in the crucifixion 
of all affection outside the domestic ring. He even 
believes that integrity to his manhood requires that he 
j should cultivate such affection, and that to crush it 
j down would be to make his other affection diseased, as 
i the entire physical system may be thrown out of bias 
: by a felonious finger or a gouty toe. This is heresy to 
! good Mrs. Blifkins, for the reason that she don't under- 
j stand it, and continually persists in making herself un- 

1 23 



266 THE MODEL HUSBAND. 

happy by the Tinhappiness she reflects from the audi- 
ence to which she lectures — Bhfkins. 

" Mrs. Bhfkins," said he, one day, " will you conde- 
scend to give me your idea of a perfect husband?" 

" Certainly, Mr. B.," said that most excellent lady, 
" and I hope the model I shall draw will be followed by 
you, and, heaven knows, there is need of improvement ; 
for, what with lodge-meetings and such things as I don't 
know about, you don't act as a married man should, 
with a lovely family, that need a head to look after 
them." 

" Well," said Blifkins, lighting a cigar, and putting 
his feet upon the table, " now fire away." 

" Well, then," said she, " my model husband would 
not address his wife in that way ; he would have said, 
' Proceed, my dear.' It all comes of keeping company 
with masons and odd fellows, and fellows that, perhaps, 
— I can B^j perJiaps, Mr. Blifkins, — are not so respect- 
able. My model husband has none of the small vices 
of some husbands that I could name ; of one, at least. 
He does n't spit in the house, nor put his feet on the 
table, nor smoke when his wife is speaking to him. He 
is too respectable for that. He stays at home every 
night, and finds his lodge at that shrine of the true 
heart, the domestic fireside. He never comes home 
with excuses that nobody knows if they are true or not. 
He never has people come to see him, to be shut up 
with him for an hour, in conversation that his wife is 
not allowed to hear. He never goes out without he 
takes her with him. He never spends money that he 
cannot account for if she asks him, and never doubts 
the wisdom or the expediency of purchases that she 
may make. He is just where he is wanted when he is 
wanted. He never contradicts his wife, nor treats her 



SONNET TO PAN. 267 

like a brut^i, as some husbands do, nor makes her cup a 
bitterness, when he should strive to make it pleasant. 
In short — " 

" In short," said Blifkins, starting up, and throwing 
his cigar into the grate, with startling violence, " in 
short, you want a miserable, spiritless, senseless, con- 
temptible tiling, — brainless and heartless, — that will 
throw himself under the wheels of the matrimonial jug- 
gernaut, and allow it to crush him, without turning ; 
and then, when you have found such a being, and the 
world points at him as the ' hen-pecked,' the 'spoon,' 
the '■ automaton,' you would love him better, would 
you, than you do the gallant, handsome, and spirited 
Blifkins, who has the delight to acknowledge you as his 
wife, but not his tyrant nor overseer?" 

Mrs. Blifkins brightened up at this a very little, but 
she does n't know where it wiU end. 



SONNET TO PAN. 

Pan ! once held the Deity of woods. 

Now changed thy place, — thy former state forgot, ■ 
"We see thee ranked amongst our household goods — 

Not gods — thy sacredness all " gone to pot." 
Thy ministers are cooks, an unctuous crew,. 

Who all thy old austerities ignore ; 
The grateful incense of the morning dew 

Goes up from off thine altar never more ; 
But odorous fries wake gustatory qualms. 

And simmering compounds scent the ambient air. 
The *' siss " of sausages ascends like psalms, 

The fume of mutton rises like a prayer. 
Thus do we change ; Pan ! with heathen man ; 
Thou wast a god — now thou 'rt a dripping Pan. 



268 ILLUSTRATIVE PANTOMIME. 

ILLUSTRATIVE PANTOMIME. 

This is excellent in its way; a good sentence is 
helped materially by an appropriate gesture in the right 
place, and even a dull one is saved from absolute 
stupidity by a timely illustrative motion of the hand. 
But we deprecate the practice of some, who, when tell- 
ing a story involving an account of their conversation 
or conduct with others, particularly of a quarrelsome 
nature, go through the motions again in public, as if 
we were the party in difficulty, leaving people pass- 
ing to infer that we are the victim of their deadly hate. 
How terrible it is to have one of the bellicose sort 
back us to the wall and force us to listen to the 
account of his trouble with another like himself, maugre 
our protestations of business and haste ! " Only a 
minute," he says, and then, taking us by the collar, 
while we endeavor to give a smiling lie to our real feel- 
ings, he commences to say that he called on his antag- 
onist, and, says he to him, ^^ What do you mean hy such 
conduct ? " This, of course, is yelled at the top of the 
voice, and people look round to see what the row is about. 
He then goes on : " He had no explanation to make." 
This is said in a moderate tone. " Then, says I," he 
continues, in a loud voice, " you are an infernal rascal^'' 
— doubling his fist in our face, and holding our collar 
by the other hand, — " and deserve to have your nose 
gulled ! " We try, with a very severe effort, to look 
good-natured; but people stare at us, and polioemen 
stand on the opposite side, watching for the moment of 
actual strife, to pitch in. " I told him," — still bran- 
dishing his fist, and speaking loud, — " you are a scamp ^ 
sir, and when I meet you on 'Change I^ll hich you ! 
He tried to go into the house, but I took him by the 



ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 269 

collar with both hands," — suiting the action to the word, 
— " and, says I, No, you don't go so easyy We are in 
despair. Another policeman has come along, and 
everybody who has passed has reported the row. Even 
the newsboys come and thrust their inquisitive and 
unwashed mugs in between us, evidently estimating 
how much they are going to make out of the disturb- 
ance in a fair retail of its detail, while the reporters 
stand waiting at the corners to secure the item that 
seems impending. Thus all seems to our disturbed 
fancy, as we stand back to the wall, with the fist coming 
up before our eyes, and the loud and violent tones in 
our ears. It is fearful to fall into the hands of such 
people, and we rush from their presence as if we 
were the ones on whom the real violence, and not the 
delineated, had been practised. Were we a teacher of 
elocution, we should recommend that this species of 
illustrative gesticulation be omitted. 



ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 

Father of waters ! — here upon thy breast 

I lay my head in trusting confidence ; 
Too long a prey to terror and unrest, 

I may, thank heaven, banish them from hence. 
Ho"W proudly scattereth our prow aside 

The turbid tides, as vainly on they sweep ; 
And the good steamer, with a seeming pride, 

Laughs in huge billows to the conquered deep ! 
But stealing o'er me like a misty cloud 

Come dreams of sawyers and perfidious snags. 
And many scenes upon my memory crowd. 

At thought of which my resolution flags, — 
And, as fears trench on confidence and trust, 
I quake to think, what if the biler bust ; 
23* 



270 MRS. PARTINGTON AT SARATOGA. 

MKS. PARTINGTON AT SARATOGA. 

" Every back is fitted for its burden/' said Mrs. Par- 
tington, as she stood by tbe Congress Spring, from 
which one had just emptied the eighth tumbler down 
his spacious gullet, " and every stomach for its portion. 
Heaven, that tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, I 
dare say will likewise also temper the water to their 
compassity to bear it ; for we read that Apollos shall 
water, and that the increase will be given, which must 
mean Saratoga water, and the increase the debility to 
hold it, though how folks can make a mill-race of their 
elementary canal is more than I can see into." Koger 
stood looking at the victim, as tumbler after tumbler 
disappeared, when he turned round to Mrs. Partington, 
and asked her if she remembered what Macbeth said to 
the Fifer, in the play. She could n't recall the name of 
Macbeth, but remembered having heard the name of 
Macaboy somewhere mentioned. He told her that the 
remark alluded to applied to the scene then enacting ; 
for the hard drinkers seemed to be saying, by their 
acts, ^^ Damned be he who first cries. Hold enough." — 
" I think they all hold too much," remarked the dame. 
Roger nodded, and smiled, saying, " And need damming, 
too." Ike stood watching the boy who drew up the 
water, pocketing the half-dimes so coolly, and wondered 
what he was going to buy with all his money, thinking 
how he could make it fly, if he had it. He had invested 
all his available funds in red crackers, and had n't a cent 
to bless himself with. 



A PICTUEE. 271 



A PICTURE. 

There 's a little low hut by the river's side. 
Within the sound of its rippling tide ; 
Its walls are gray with the mosses of years. 
And its roof all crumbly and old appears ; 
But fairer to me than a castle's pride 
Is the little low hut by the river's side. 

The little low hut was my natal nest, 

Where my childhood passed — life's spring-time blest ; 

Where the hopes of ardent youth were formed, 

And the sun of promise my young heart warmed. 

Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide. 

And left the dear hut by the river's side. 

That little old hut, in lowly guise. 
Was lofty and grand to my youthful eyes ; 
And fairer trees were ne'er known before 
Than the apple-trees by the humble door. 
That my father loved for their thrifty pride. 
Which shadowed the hut by the river's side. 

That little low hut had a glad hearth-stone. 
That echoed of old with a pleasant tone, 
And brothers and sisters, a merry crew, 
Filled the hours with pleasure as on they flew. 
But one by one have the loved ones died 
That dwelt in the hut by the river's side. 

The father revered and the children gay 

The grave and the world have called away. 

But quietly all alone there sits 

By the pleasant window, in summer, and knits, 

An aged woman, long years allied 

With the little low hut by the river's side. 

That little old hut to the lonely wife 
Is the cherished stage of her active life ; 
Each scene is recalled in memory's beam. 
As she sits by the window in pensive dream. 
And joys and woes roll back like a tide. 
In that little old hut by the river's side. 



272 JOB A DEUMMEE. 

My mother ! — alone by the river's side. 

She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide, 

And the voice that shall thrill her heart with its call. 

To meet once more "with the dear ones all, 

And form in a region beatified 

The band that once met by the river's side. 

That dear old hut by the river's side 
"With the warmest pulse of my heart is allied. 
And a glory is over its dark walls thrown 
That statelier fabrics have never known ; 
And I still shall love, with a fonder pride. 
That little old hut by the river's side. 
JVbt;., 1857. 



JOB A DRUMMER. 



Theee was a lecture preached in the Httle brick j 
school-house, when Mrs. Partington lived in BeanvillC; 
upon the natural and practical application of the Gospel. , 
The old lady, who all her life long had attended at the 
Old North Church, looked upon the discourse with sus- 
picion, and watched the preacher with much jealousy, in 
hopes of catching him tripping. At last he spoke of 
the book of Job, commending its grandeur and great j 
beauty of thought, but saying that he regarded Job as i 
simply a drama. The old lady was near the door, and 
as she heard this she immediately arose and left the 
house, saying, with a warmth scarcely in keeping with 
her character, — but religious prejudice, even in the | 
best, will induce a queer feeling, and we would throw 
this pen into the fire rather than pretend that Mrs. Par- 
tington was perfect, — " Well, well, I wonder what he '11 : 
say next ? What a presentiment from a pulpit where the 
Gospel has been so long dispensed with ! " — " What 's the 
matter, mem? " asked old Mr. Jones, who ran against the 
dame as he was going in, reminding one of the concus- 



A SLIGHT MISCONCEPTION. 273 

sion of the irresistible and immovable bodies, — ^' what 's 
the matter ? what 's broke ? " — feeling round on the 
ground for his specs, which had been knocked off by the 
collision. — "Why," said she, pulling down her cap- 
border, which had been, like her temper, a little dis- 
turbed, " why, he has just said that Job was n't nothing 
but a drummer ; and if that is n't blastphemy, I should 
like to know what is." — " Did you judge, from the tenor 
of his remark, that Job was a bass drummer ? " said 
Jones, at the same moment. — "No," replied she, "but 
the remark was very base." Mr. Jones laughed, and 
the dame greatly wondered thereat, deeming that he was 
yet, as she said to herself, "in the intents of wickedness." 



A SLIGHT MISCONCEPTION. 

" Theee 's where the boys fit for college," said the 
Professor to Mrs. Partington, pointing to the High- 
School house. — "Did they?" said the old lady, with 
animation ; " and, if they fit for college before they went 
there, did n't they fight afterwards ? " — " Yes," said he, 
smiling, and favoring the conceit ; " yes, but the fight 
was with the head, and not with the hands." — " Butted, 
did they?" said the old lady, persistently. — "I mean," 
continued he, "that they wrestled with their studies, 
and went out of college to be our ministers and doc- 
tors." " Ah ! " said she, " I never knew that people had 
to rastle to be ministers and doctors before." They 
moved on, Mrs. Partington pondering the new idea, and 
Ike and Lion striving for the possession of the old lady's 
umbrella. 



274 STOEY OF feazee's eivee. 



STORY OF FRAZER'S RIVER: 

EEVEALI2sG TKE FATE OF A JIA2J WHO INDULGED IN FLUIDS TO VraiCH HE 

WAS NOT ACCUSTOMED. 

[The story was told in the California papers, on the authority of a German Doctor, that 
a man at Frazer's Elver drank some water that he found in the quartz rock, and was 
turned to stone.] 

I FEEL a shiver 
Come over my frame at the very name 

Of auriferous Frazer's River, 
Where gold in lumps as big as a biggin 
Is lying all round awaiting the diggiag ; 

Where they pick the locks 

Of crystalline rocks, 
. Such fabulous riches showing, 

That men to-day in seedy sorrow 

May homeward go, elate, to-morrow 
With pockets overflowiag ; 
And this is the reason why I shiver 
At tidings brought from Frazer's River : 

Onesimus Guile 

Had made his pile 

In a very inconsiderable while ; 

But the weather was good. 

And the nuggets were whoppers. 

And Guile always stood 

To look after the coppers ; 
And so, his greed growing stronger and stronger. 

He said to himself. 

As I 'm in for the pelf, 
I might as well tarry a little while longer ; — 

A little more rhino 

Will not hurt me, / know. 
And while Fortune is kind I '11 engage her. 

Men's favor I '11 win 

With my surplus of tin. 

And though I 'm a miner — he gave a grin — 
I can hold up my head like a major. 

Then he went to his raking 
And rocking and shaking. 
With weary brain and body aching. 
Toiling on, if sleeping or waking. 



STORY OF FRAZER'S RIVER. ^75 

Not a moment of comfort taking, 

His hope of home for the time forsaking, 

In wet weather soaking, in hot weather baking. 

To add to his earthly riches ; 
Digging and delving early and late, 
Scratching the soil with an anxious pate. 
Running a muck with a golden fate. 

Wearing out body and — boots. 
Just the same as your millionaire. 
Who asks at first but a moderate share. 
And takes for his motto old Agar's prayer. 

But, as his wealth increases. 
He cannot fix on a quantum suf.. 
And never knows when he has enough. 
His greed being made of elastic stuff. 

That in its stretch ne'er ceases. 

As he picked his way. 

On a subsequent day, 

A boulder of quartz before him lay. 
His greedy eyes making richer ; 

One sturdy blow 

He gave it, when, lo ! 

A stream of water from it did flow. 
As though poured out from a pitcher. 
As clear as crystal, and icy cold, 
'T was a very charming stream to behold. 

And Guile stood still, enchanted ; 
For sparkling water, clear and bright. 
Is ever a source of true delight ; 
It comes to us in dreams of night. 
When our lips are dry and parched and white. 
And fever, like a hideous sprite. 

Our sleeping hours has haunted ; — 
Though many there be who are better suited 
To have the water a little diluted ! 
Guile bowed his head to the mystical pool. 
And tasted its waters pure and cool. 

Then drank till he felt satiety ; 
Saying that, though from quartz it came. 
There was n't in it the baleful flame. 
The burning and abiding shame. 
That flowed from a source with a similar name, 



276 STORY OP fjbazer's river. 

That tripped the heels of sobriety, 
A wild, agrarian, levelling thing, 
A jet from an infernal spring. 

That flowed to plague society ! 
But soon he felt he had drunk too deep : 
A cold chill over his frame did creep. 
His eyelids drooped with a sense of sleep. 

And he yielded to its action ; 
He slept, but over his sleep there stole 
A spirit power of dread and dole. 
That quenched the flame of his being's coal. 
And changed poor Guile from a living soul 

To a thing of petrifaction ! 
To rouse him his mates tried all their devices, 

But vain did they strive 

And drive and contrive. 
He was stiff as a saint in the temple of Isis. 

They carved him up 

In goblet and cup. 
In pipes and folders and handles. 

In bracelets rg,re. 

And combs for the hair, 
And sticks for holding candles ; 

His wife wore his chin 

As a cameo pin. 
And earrings wrought from his toes ; 

His fingers were sought. 

Into chess-men wrought. 
And a paper-weight made of his nose ! 
TiU never was known in the world before 
A case where a man went into more 

Extensive distribution. 
Or where, if he should claim his own. 
The chances would be fainter shown 

Of getting restitution ; 
And this is why I always shiver 
To hear the name of Frazer's River. 



HABITS. 277 



HABITS 



The force of habit is very great. It becomes, after a 
while, our second nature ; and it is very unfortunate 
that the habits are so often Avrong, leading us, almost in 
our own despite, to believe the dogma of man's innate 
depravity. We are bigots from habit, inebriates from 
habit, gluttons from habit, swearers from habit, — there 
is no need of extending the list. How subtly habit 
steals upon us ! We laugh at the caution w^hich would 
save us, and take the first step in sin, that leads to the 
plunge down the abyss from which there is scarcely an 
escape. How we pet our habits, and palliate them, and 
justify them ! They get their hold upon us through an 
inefficient will, which in itself is a habit. The will 
should be cultivated and strengthened, as much as the 
body and mind ; but habit, at the very outset, says the 
will of the child must be crushed out. It should be 
encouraged, rather, and directed to its proper end. With 
stout will and resolution, we may throw off or resist 
habit; but without, it holds us with hooks of steel. It 
is unfortunate to know that more than half of our time 
is spent in repenting of habits contracted during the 
other and better half; and more unfortunate to think 
that our own habits have, by example, involved others 
in the same habits. In vain we say, " Get thee behind 
me, Satan ! " if we have not the back-bone to command 
it. Satan laughs at us, and treats us contemptuously 
every way ; for we are weak, and Satan is strong. We 
may make loud protestations at high twelve in prayer- 
meeting, for we are courageous with the multitude ; but 
when left to ourselves, and our own weakness, like Peter 
on the water, we sink. 
24 



278 CHECKERS. — GEAMMAE. 

CHECKERS. 

"We often hear about life's " clieckered scenes," 

And every man's experience owns the same, 
And this is "what the trite expression means : 

The world 's a checker-board and life 's the game. 
The men are placed when we sit down to play, 

The rows unbroken, and we boldly move. 
But oft disaster marks the first essay, 

And, pushing blindly on, we losers prove. 
Let us be vrary, watching close the board. 

Looking for traps that may on us be sprung — 
For fate propitious cannot be restored. 

If lost the vantage when the game is young. 
Through vigilance alone we ever win 
O'er those shrewd players. Appetite and Sin. 



GRAMMAE,. 

'' People may say as mucli as they please about the 
excellence of the schools/' said Mrs. Partington, very 
terribly, ".but, for my part, I think they are no better 
than they ought to be. Why, do you know," continued 
she, in a big whisper, " that Isaac's teacher has actually 
been giving him instruction in vulgar fractions ? " She 
took off her spectacles and rubbed the glasses, in her 
excitement putting them on bottom side up. The charge, 
we admitted, was a just one. " Yes," continued 'she, 
brightening up for a new charge, Hke a slate beneath 
the action of a wet sponge, " yes, and see what other 
things they learn, about moods and pretences and all 
sorts of nonsense. Gracious knows we learn moods 
enough without going to school, and as for pretences 
we find enough of them outside. There are too many 
pretenders in the schools and out of 'em, without trying 
to make any more." She was provoked because Ike 
didn't get the medal for his splendid composition on the 
" American Eagle." 



FEELING. — AN IMPOSTOR. 279 



FEELING. 



A LECTURER once claimed for feeling the whole of 
the qualities that characterized all the senses as they are 
distinguished by the old dogma. He argued that 
through the eyes, ears, palate, nose, all arrived at the 
sensorium, and hence were feeling. And there Was 
truth and beauty in it ; for what were all those open 
doors to consciousness, if the feeling were wanting to 
give the glow to beauty, or the melody to song, or the 
perfection to art? We see many living illustrations of 
the truth of this in the world, in whom feeling lies an 
uncultivated thing, withering in the air of frigid indif- 
ference. They are called heartless people, which is very 
expressive ; and we feel chilled by contact with them, as 
though, in our summerish feeling, a breeze from over an 
iceberg had fanned us. 



AN IMPOSTOR, 



" Truth is stranger than friction," said Mrs. Parting- 
ton, as she listened to one who came to her with a fear- 
ful story of incredible calamity. " I ^m not nat'rally 
incredible ] but, if you had n't told the story yourself, I 
should n't have given credulity to it. You 'd better go 
to the society for the prevention of porpoises ; for they 
are very malevolent, and might give you something to 
do." How thankful the individual seemed to feel at her 
kindness ; and he went off invoking blessings upon her, 
though she marvelled very much to see him go in an 
opposite direction from that she had indicated. The 
something to do had evidently staggered him. 



280 MESMERISM AND MATRIMONY 

MESMEEISM AND MATRIMO ■ ' . 

OR, SCIENCE VERSUS WIDOW. 

Martin Speed was a bachelor. He ha^l backed and 
filled, and hesitated and doubted about entering upon 
the. " blissful estate " of matrimony, until the fire of 
youthful passion was all spent, and matrimony had be- 
come a problem to him as dry and formal as one in old 
Walsh's arithmetic ; to be ciphered out for an answer, 
as much as that proposition about carrying the fox, 
goose, and bag of corn, across the creek, that every- 
body " problemly " remembers. Being a phrenologist, 
he left the province of hearts altogether, and went 
to examining heads, to ascertain by craniological devel- 
opments a woman's "fitness for the position of a wife to 
Martin Speed, Esq., as letters came addressed to him at 
the Speedwell post-office. The town of Speedwell was 
named for an ancestor of his, and boasted of several 
thousands of inhabitants ; and, as it was a factory place, 
it had a goodly share of good-looking marriageable girls. 

Martin studied Combe and Spurzheim and Gall, and 
grew bitter as disappointment saw him enter his forty- 
first year a bachelor. He looked back on the past, 
and saw the chances he had neglected, and the happi- 
ness of those who had started with him, and were now 
portly people, the heads and fronts of families ; and the 
delicate damsels he had slighted, respected mothers in 
Israel, and exemplary and amiable wives. He sought 
every opportunity for examining the heads of such as 
would submit themselves to his hand with a hope of 
catching the bachelor ; for they knew his weakness, and 
he was well-to-do and an eligible match. But in vain 
he looked for perfection. The bumps would not be 
arranged as he wished them. If he took a liking to a 



MESMERISM AND MATRIMONY. 281 

pretty face, phrenology impertinently gave it the lie 
straight, and he at once avoided it. 

It was at this juncture that a biological lecturer — 
a grave professor in that science — came to Speed- 
well and gave a series of exhibitions. These Martin 
attended, and biology at once became an " intensity " 
with him, — a "new emotion." He attended all" the 
exhibitions; — saw men personate roosters and crow; 
'hens and scratch; shiver with cold or burn with 
heat, at the will of the operator ; saw a miser endeavor 
to clutch an eagle held out to him while under the influ- 
ence of the wonderful spell, and the tongue of a woman 
stilled who for twenty years had been the pest of Speed- 
well by her loquacity. 

This put the mind of Martin on a new track. He sold 
his old phrenological works, and devoted himself to the 
study of the wonderful science through which such 
marvels were performed. The professor was a fine 
teacher, and Martin placed himself under his tuition. 
He succeeded admirably. In a short time he sur- 
passed his instructor, and had more than his powers 
in influencing the susceptible among his weak brethren 
and sisters. 

He formed a resolution to himself, that through this 
means he would gain a wife. Could he find one that 
his science could control, — one that at a glance he 
could transfix, like the man who was stopped by the 
mesmerize r half-way down, as he was falling from the 
roof of a house, — he would marry her ; for the reason, 
dear reader, that Martin had not married, was that he 

had heard of wives wearing the authority over 

their lords, and he was a timid man. In this new sci- 
ence he saw security, and sedulously sought for one of 
24* 



282 MESMEEISM AND MATRIMONY. 

the right description. At every party where he was 
invited, at every sewing-circle, at every knot of factory 
girls in which he mingled in the summer evenings, he 
tried his art, bnt without success. At last, when on the 
point of despairing, accident gave what he had failed 
of obtaining by earnest seeking. A widow — danger- 
ous to bacheloric peace, as edged tools are to the 
careless hands of the inexperienced — came to the 
village on a visit. The weeds had not been removed 
that marked her bereavement, and the merest touch of 
melancholy rested on her brow ; but her eye was laugh- 
ing, and a sweet curl strayed away and lay like a chis- 
elled eddy upon the marble of her cheek. She had a 
jewel on her hand, and the black dress she wore was 
cut judiciously, — the milliner that cut it had been a 
widow herself, and knew how to manage such matters, 
— showing a beautiful white shoulder, and revealing a 
bust of rare loveliness. 

Martin met the widow at the residence of a friend, 
and liked her. He had never seen so prepossessing a 
woman, he thought. But she had buried one husband, 
and that was rather a drawback. One visit led to an- 
other, the liking still increasing, until he broached the 
subject of biology, with a wish fervently felt that this 
might be the woman he sought. She was fully ac- 
quainted with it, and, in answer to his question if she 
was susceptible to its influence, she replied that she 
did n't know, but was willing to have the fact tested. 
What a position for Martin ! Seated by her side on a 
sofa, with her hand laid in his, her rich dark eyes rest- 
ing upon his with a look equal to that which the widow 
Wadman poured into those of the unsuspecting Toby, in 
the stillness of a summer evening ! But science held 
him secure, and his nerves were calm as the summer 



MESMERISM AND MATRIMONY. 288 

day of that evening. By and by the beautiful lids 
drooped, the head bent gently forward, and the widow, 
with a sweet smile upon her lips, lay fast asleep. Mar- 
tin could have shouted " Eureka," in his delight at the 
discovery. Now his pulse quickened, and he stooped 
to kiss the lips that lay unresisting before him ; but he 
did n't. By the exercise of his power he awakened her, 
and she was much surprised at being caught napping, 
and blushed at the strangeness of it ; and blushed more 
when Martin told her how he had been tempted, and 
how gloriously he had resisted ; and laughed a little 
when she slapped his cheek with her fingers as he took 
pay from the widow's lips for his self-denial, and went 
home half crazy with joy at his new-found treasure, 
more like a boy of nineteen than a matured gentleman 
of forty. 

Every night found him a visitor at the widow's, and 
every night the success of the science was proved, until 
by a meire look or a wave of the hand the beautiful 
widow became a subject to his will, and he became at 
the same time a subject to hers. She was such a splen- 
did creature, too ! You would not find in a long jour- 
ney another fairer, or more intelligent, or more virtuous. 
The question might be asked, which magnetism was the 
most pleasant or most powerful, his or hers. But he 
thought only of his own, not deeming that he was in 
a spell more powerful, that was irrevocably binding 
him. What could an old bachelor know of such a 
thing ? 

This state of things grew to a crisis, at last, and Mar- 
tin formally proposed to the widow that the two should 
be made one, by the transmutation of the church. To 
this she assented ; and it was announced soon after, to 
the astonishment of all, that Martin Speed had married 



2H4: MESMEEISM A]ST) MATRIMONY. 

the widow Goode. The punster of the village made 
a notable pnn about Good-Speed, at which people 
laughed very much ; and the editor of one of the 
papers, who was a very funny man, put it in print. 

It happened, shortly after the marriage, that they had 
a famous party, and some of the guests bantered Martin 
about his marriage, upon which he told them of the 
manner it came about. They were a httle incredulous, 
and he volunteered to give them some specimens of his 
remarkable power over his wife. She was in another 
room attending to some female friends, when he called 
her to him. She came obediently, and he asked her to 
sit down, which she did. He took her hand and looked 
into her eyes, to put her to sleep. Her eyes were wide 
open, and a lurking spirit of mischief looked out of 
them broadly into his. He waved his hands before 
them, but they remained persistently open. He bent 
the force of his will to their subjugation, but it was of 
no use. 

" Mr. Speed," said she, laughing, " I don't believe 
the magnetism of the husband is equal to that of the 
lover ; or, perhaps, science and matrimony are at 
war." 

She said this in a manner to awaken a strong suspi- 
cion in his mind that she had humbugged him, and had 
never been put to sleep at all. His friends, as friends will 
when they fancy a poor fellow has got into a hobble, 
laughed at him, and told the story all round the village. 
For months he was an object of sport to everybody. 
People would make passes over each other as he passed, 
and women would shut their eyes and look knowing. 
But, whether 7^25 power had gone or not, Jiers remained; 
and he cared not a fig for their laughing, for he was 
happy in the beautiful spell of affection which she threw 



THE OLD NORTH MILL-POND. 285 

over him, that bound him as a chain of flowers. The 
attempt to close her eyes was never repeated, for he 
was too glad to see them open to wish to lose sight of 
them. Life with Speed sped well, and Martm became 
a father in time. He never regretted the expedient he 
adopted to get his wife, though he never could make 
out exactly whether she humbugged him or not. 



THE OLD NORTH MILL-PONfc 

Rippling, rippling on memory's shore. 
Comes the sound of waters evermore, — 
Comes in the dreams of quiet night. 
Comes in the day's effulgent light. 
Comes with the thoughts of years bygone. 
Thrilling my heart with its monotone, — 
Thrilling my heart with emotions fond. 
As I think of the dear old North Mill-Pond. 

There are lakes which glow 'neath warmer skies. 
There are waves which shine in grander guise, 
There are mightier seas and loftier streams 
Than this meandering through my dreams ; 
But none with me have a stronger claim 
Than the humble one with its humble name. 
That has drawn my muse from its flight beyond. 
To bathe its wings in the North Mill-Pond. 

I 've passed far on life's devious track, — 
Onward, still onward, but, looking back. 
O'er a weary landscape of cares and tears, 
A boy by a silvery stream appears. 
Who smiles as he stands in the sun's bright ray 
As /smiled in glad boyhood's day. 
Ere the bitter lesson of life I conned. 
And left the side of the North Mill-Pond. 



286 THE OLD NORTH MILL-POND. 

0, blessed alchemy of youth. 
That holdest the mirror up to truth, 
Bnd all that makes the young heart blest 
Is on the polished plate impressed ; 
.Each scene by young affection traced 
Is viyid still and undefaced, 
Drawing me back with a loving bond 
Again to the bank of the North Mill-Pond. 

The graye-yard lies o'er the water blue. 
The old grave-yard which my boyhood knew ; 
The white stones gleam by the hillock green, 
And nameless mounds strew the space between ; 
And sweetly they rest in their dreamless sleep 
Whom the graves in their motherly bosoms keep, 
BecaUed and held in affection fond 
As they rest by the side of the North Mill-Pond. 

'T was beautiful, when the eve was still. 
To list to the drone of the distant mill. 
As it rose and fell on the summer air. 
In the dewy darkness resting there ; 
Its tones were words to my youthful ear. 
My heart was soothed with their better cheer. 
And was borne away to scenes beyond 
The margin green of the North Mill-Pond. 

And when in the north the lightning shone 

From out the gathering tempest's throne. 

In the hush of the winds ere they woke from rest. 

To foam o'er the water's placid breast, 

I loved to stand mid the shadows dark. 

The muttering thunder's voice to hark. 

And my soul to its music did respond. 

As I sat by the side of the North Mill-Pond 

'T is here again with its early note. 

Again on its beauteous tide I float ; 

I bathe once more in its crystal bright, 

And sport with the skaters in rapid flight ; 

And fish for minnows beneath its waves 

From the broad flat stone which the water laves; — 

All, all are here in remembrance fond. 

And my heart is glad for the North Mill-Pond. 



THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY. 287 

Thus rippling, rippling on memory's shore. 

Comes the sound of waters evermore ! 

0, sounds of delight, my spirit hears 

And treasures the words of those distant years, - - 

Ere care had deadened or sorrow pressed. 

To ruffle my buoyant bosom's rest, — 

When hope was bright nor knew despond, 

By the smiling and beautiful North Mill-Pond. 



THE TRUE PHILOSOPHY. 

Uncle Hopeful, as we must call him, because he is 
everything that is cheerful and happy, was talking with 
us on the occasion of his seventieth birth-day, and the 
conversation naturally led to life and its uses. We 
could not avoid asking the question how it was that, 
while other men were soured by the cares of the world, 
and bent over with their weight, he had retained his 
elasticity of temper and body. He assured us that he 
had no patent for his remedy, there was no secret in- 
volved in it. He had begun life with a determination 
to do right, and as, in order to do right, it was essential 
that he should feel right, his prayer had been for grace, 
a cheerful heart, and a broader nature. He had gone 
out into the world with this feeling, and the result had 
been peace. He had never quarrelled, never wronged 
a man, never joined a church, loved God and men, and 
was now ready to step from this bank and shoal of time 
to the destiny beyond, unwavering in his faith that it 
was well with him. Uncle Hopeful had not been a per- 
fect man, as the world understands the word perfect. 
He had had his buffetings with Satan in the form of 
various temptations, from some of which encounters he 
had come out badly hurt ; but the smart had done him 



288 THE TKUE PHILOSOPHY. 

good. He had seen in each temptation a new lesson, 
enjoining upon him the duty of loving the tempted and 
the fallen, and the uses of adversity likewise had a deep 
and abiding belief in him. He thanked Grod for his 
temptation, for it had made him stronger ; and for his 
adversity, for it had made him better — had softened his 
heart, and brought him more into sympathy with the 
sorrowful. " Unole Hopeful," then we said, " what is 
your recipe, in brief, for a happy life ? " The old man 
lifted his face, as bright as though he were transfigured, 
and uttered the words, " Purpose and work — an object 
and the struggle for its attainment." — " Suppose the 
object is money? " we queried. — " That is disease," he 
replied, thoughtfully ; " the object should be the honor 
of. God and the improvement of man — everything else 
should be subordinate." We separated, but the lesson 
went with us. How few there are who live according 
to Uncle Hopeful's idea of happiness ! How many are 
there now standing on the verge of a life, that can look 
back along its path with the same satisfaction as Uncle 
Hopeful ? Measuring life by its usefulness, he has lived 
more than seventy years. When such a person dies, it 
seems to us that tears are the selfish begrudgings of our 
nature of the rest he so much needs after his long and 
faithful toil. A little of his own cheerful philosophy 
should give us joy at his transit, rather than sorrow. 



A CLASSIC. 289 



A CLASSIC. 

[The story of Menippus and the Empusa has run together in the following craze of 
rhyme. Though slightly modernized in its present construction, it retains the peculiar 
ities of the fable.] 

I WILL tell you the tale of INIenipptis the Lycian, 
A jolly young fellow, but far from a rich 'un. 

Who was just twenty-five 

And the fairest alive. 
Who fell mad in love with a charming Phoenician. 

On the road to Cenchrea 

He first chanced to see her. 

And rich as a Jew did the damsel appear — 
All covered with jewels and elegant laces. 
With rings and such things to add to her graces. 

And smiles like the Hours' 

Li heavenly bowers. 

That Mahomet held out for Moslem " devours." 
Then she gave Menippus an invitation 
To visit her as he 'd inclination. 
At her suburban habitation. 

Near beautiful Corinth village ; 
, She promised him wines that beat creation, 
And fruit from every clime and nation, 
Besides a hint at sly flirtation. 

And other delectable pillage. 
And then Menippus gave her his card, 
And swore by his gods, and swore very hard. 

That she was a trump, 

And he was a gump 

If he did n't at such opportunity jump. 

His amorous flame 

Had n't given her name, 

But this to Menippus was all the same, 
For he was in love, and lovers we know 
Are the stupidest people the world can show. 
So he went straightway to see her as bid. 
And she vowed she loved but him, she did. 
And she gave him money and gave him wine, 
x\nd the path of life seemed all divine, 
A precious dream that would ne'er grow dim. 
And the world was a jolly old world for him, 
25 



290 A CLASSIC. 

Until ApoUonius, tlie mighty magician. 

Came down like a sluice on the fair Phoenician. 

Says he, " My sonny. 

There 's gall in your honey — 

Look out for breakers and bogus money ! 
This lady, whose charms you delightedly howl. 
Is — this in your ear — a condenmible ghoul, 

Empusa hight. 

Whose appetite 

Li things forbidden of men takes delight ; 
Of a kind who entrap in their infamous mesh 
The nice young fellows with tender flesh, 
And, pepperless, saltless, eat them fresh ! 

And this, my fi'iend. 

Will be your end. 

If you don't to my present words attend : 
She only waits for the wedding-day 
To dish you up in an epicure way. 

She 's a serpent, a toad, 

And you take up a load, 

If you travel with her the marital road." 
Then young Menippus, scratching his head. 
Thus to the sage ApoUonius said : 
" To-morrow, old fellow, I 'm to be wed. 
I 'U not be wrecked with the port in sight. 
You need n't try me thus to fright ; 

And, did n't I think 

That you never drink, 
I 'd certainly say you were rather tight ! 
Not one word you 've said is true, man, 
For I assure you she 's no such woman ; 

So, as sure as a gun. 

By to-morrow's sun 

She and your humble servant are one. 

And if you 're there you may see the fun." 

The day shone bright. 

And the bride, all in white, 

Like a being of light, 

In accustomed garb of the bride bedight. 

Was called by all a delectable sight. 
And the men and maids of Corinth were there, 
To see that the nuptials were put through fair ; 



A CLASSIC. 291 

But just as the Corintliian minister 

Had opened his head. 

And only said, 

*' You twain I wed," 
A Toice cried out, " Yes, over the sinister ! " 
When, as all wondered what it could mean. 
Old ApoUonius stepped on the scene. 
He forbade the marriage, and told them to stay. 
For the bride was n't one in a marrying way — 

That she was a ghoul, 

A being most foul. 
And tying this knot there 'd be Dickens to pay. 

Then all may see 

AVhat a row there must be — 

The lady raved like none but she ; 
And she vowed that in Tophet's gulf she ^d toss over 
Every one that was called a philosopher. 
But old ApoUonius, quite up to trap. 
For all of her violence cared not a snap. 
He told her he 'd soon cut her off root and branch. 
If she did n't instantly vamose the ranch ; 

She cried and took on. 

And was loth to be gone, 

But, charged with her crime, she admitted the com ; 

Then passed from their view. 

And the riches all flew, 

And the jewels crumbled to ashes, too ; 
And poor Menippus, as we are told. 
Scratched his head in wonder, and muttered, " sold " 

MORAL. 

Youths, don't at hasty marriages jump. 

For every woman may not be a trump. 

Kemember Menippus's lucky escape. 

And use all care to avoid a bad scrape. 

Or else you may find yourself, maugre your groans, 

Wife-eaten — wife-eaten — body and bones. 



292 BE CONTENTED. 



BE CONTENTED. 



" Do yoTi know what the people of Cape Ann do when 
it rains ? " one asked of another. Upon confessing his 
ignorance, he was informed that they let it rain. This 
is the true philosophy. It is best not to fret at evils 
that we cannot help, or even for those that we might 
help ; for fretting does not better a thing any. We 
always admired the example of the venerable negro in 
the song, " whose name was Uncle Ned." Of him it is 
narrated that when his teeth failed him, because of his 
declining years, and he could no longer eat the corn 
bread, he ^^ let the corn-bread be," with charming resig- 
nation. There is an old saying, that has come down to 
us from very remote antiquity, that '^ it is of no use to 
cry for spilled milk." Fretting shortens life, and makes 
it miserable while it lasts, tiring sympathy and wearing 
out surrounding patience. Fretting wrinkles the skin 
like a baked apple, turns the aspect to a glum sourness, j 
makes the finest eyes look wicked, and places personal i 
beauty at a risk. The Sage of Thorndike was one hun- | 
dred and ten years old when he died, and at that age l 
his face was as fair as an infant's. When asked the | 
secret of this, his reply was, " I never allowed my face ' 
to pucker with the wrinkles of fretfulness and ill-tem- ' 
per." The saying of this herbaceous and venerable 
sage should be remembered. Paterfamilias, in the midst i 
of his family of discordant elements, — his antagonistic ; 
children quarrelling and making a particular hurricane 
about his house, — never frets. He looks upon them I 
complacently, counsels the- noisiest, — that will hear him, 
— and makes up his mind that if they don't heed him J 
they can let it alone. Some people spend much breath 
in fretting about the weather. They go about blowing 



WHIST. 293 

and blurting like porpoises. They see danger to the 
corn in the cold weather, and fret in anticipation of 
short crops before the bloom comes. We had better 
take things as they come, and not fret about them, what- 
ever they may prove, always remembering Mr. Tenny, 
who ne'er fretted any, who expressed himself so indif- 
ferent as to his fate when sick, — not caring whether he 
h'ved or got well. 



WHIST. 

It is pleasant, on the winter evenings, when the wind 
is whistling by our doors and rattling our windows, as 
though striving to get in, and howling down chimney 
at us as we sit by the fire, to draw pleasantly around 
the table and read amusing tales from books, or indulge 
in a pleasant conversation, or, if a neighbor comes in^ 
form a cheerful party at whist, and in the healthful inter- 
est of the game make the wintry hours pass away on 
rosy wings. Whist is a great invention — fashionable, 
interesting, and harmless. It forms a salutary exercise 
for the reflective powers and the memory, through the 
study of how to play and the constant tax upon the 
mind to recall what has been played, involving the nice 
matters of "finesse" and judicious "third-in-hand." But 
it should be played in silence, in accordance with its 
name — wliist 1 It is very annoying to have one or more 
of the select four buzzing and chattering along through 
the intricacy of the game, where attention is wanted, and 
memory, to secure a triumph — when the honors do 
not count, and the odd trick is indispensable to going 
out. How vexing it is, when the whole turning of the 
contest hangs upon your partner's third-hand-high, to 
25* 



294 WHIST. 

have some remark induce forgetfulness, and down goes 
the dence, maybe, and to the deuce goes the game ! 
Whist I it is beautiful, when four sit down to a feast of 
the intellectual, cut and shuffle calmly, and coolly, and 
contemplatively, without the intermingling of scandal 
or souchong-tea remark. We light our cigar, we assort 
the cards, we deliberate on a lead ; we judge by the hand 
we hold where the strength of the battle lies, and 
whether to draw out trumps or not. We do nothing 
rashly. It is science against science. Charge and repel 
— mine and countermine — plot and counterplot, until 
the strife is over, to subside into reminiscences of the 
game, contestants proving on the ends of the fingers 
that, if so and so had been done, thus and so would have 
been the result. Ah, happy the hours, in the years gone 
by, spent in this delightful way — and so sinless, so 
peaceful, so grateful ! The memory, busy with the past, 
recalls scenes in which we participated, many years ago, 
before this mould accrued upon our beard, and when the 
hair bore no traces of accumulating silver — when the 
band was large that met with us in gladness and joy, 
now, alas ! thinned by the changes of time and the vicis- 
situdes of circumstance, involving separation, and worse 
alienation, through worldly selfishness and the hard- 
heartedness that money brings with it. Some may say, 
like the " detestable Jones," that such memories are 
vain ; that the enjoyments they recall were frivolities 
better forgotten; that sin found an entrance to the 
soul through the portals of easy friendship, and the 
better man was lulled to sleep by the insidious influ- 
ences of pleasure ; but it is pleasant to recall them, never- 
theless, and in dreams of joy enact the scenes anew that 
gave dehght then. Whist thus has, like Moses' rod, 
struck the rock, and memory has poured out like a flood j 



TO A HEEL-TAP. 295 

the ■ table is vacant ; the guests have flown ; not a 
pasteboard is to be seen ; the wind howls by the win 
dow and the chimney ; and we sit .alone by the fire 
crooning o'er thoughts of lang syne. 



TO A HEEL-TAP. 



I SING a heel-tap. Not the like of what, 

When midnight wrapt the earth, did erst 

Wake maddened echoes in the throngless streets, 

And Charleys twirled their rattles all in yain, 

That dissonance did make 'mongst walls reverberate ; 

Nor like to those which made familiar paths 

Most labyrinthine in their winding way. 

And key-holes mystical and treacherous, 

Eyading all approach from midnight keys ; 

Nor like to those which laid the malty knight 

Among the porcine tenants of the sty. 

Who, when assailed by snout inquisitive. 

Did cry, "Leave tucking up, and come to bed J '" 

Not such as these — ah, greater bootee mine ; 
A heel-tap it, of most unquestioned shape. 
That lately bore upon the happy pave 
The fairer half of mail's duality. 
Tapping sweet music on the insensate bricks ! 
0, blissfol heel-tap, such a weight to bear ! 
0, blissful bricks, did ye but know your bliss ! 
0, muse of mine, which this fair tap hath tapped, 
And made to trickle in harmonious streams. 
Giving, in fairest measure, soul for sole ! 
I found thee pronely resting on the pave, 
A lacerated sole — and many feet did tread 
Unheeding by thee, nor did deign a glance 
Of pity on thy upturned pleading pegs. 
No Levite I to go the other side. 
But sympathizing I essay to heel. 
I clasp thee to my heart, e'en though thy pegs 
Should gnaw my flesh with their protruding teeth. 

What wert thou ? Say, did some slight girlish step 
Patter its leathery tattoo by thy aid, 



296 OYSTERS. 

Till sensitiyeness ached to hear its note ? 

Or did some matron press thee with a -weight 

That made thy lot a bui-den hard to hear? 

Wert thou a^shopping bent, or churchward bound. 

Or aiding charity along her way. 

Or bearing scholarhood to learning's halls? 

No answer — well, my heart gives the reply, 

And pictures all your silence would conceal. 

Ah ! she was lovely as the month of May — 
The glorious month of melody and bloom — 
That poets prate about, with noses red. 
Sitting by furnaces of Lehigh coal ; 
Her eyes were blue as heaven's cerulean deeps ; 
Her hair the sort with which Dan Cupid weaves 
The sweetest, strongest, prettiest true-love knots ; 
Her mouth like strawberries, though by far more sweet ; 
Her teeth more pearly than those patent ones 
That Ctmimings shows up there in Tremont Row ; 
Her neck, than swan's more gracefal (not the Swan 
Who makes new school-books for the growing age, 
And forms the firm of Hickling, Swan and Brewer) ; 
Her form the embodied type of human grace. 
That it were madness e'er to wish to clasp. 
But which I 'd worship, like a far-off star. 
And bow in adoration 'neath its beams ! 

No more ! Imagination faiuts to draw. 
And reason whispers in tb^ other ear — 
The sinister — through whose weak portals pass 
All words of ill, and all vile slanderous things — 
" What if this goddess you have drawn were black?" 



OYSTERS, 



Regarding oysters, these delightful esculents enter so 
largely into the comforts and happinesses of life, that a 
word in their praise may not be amiss. No entertain- 
ment is complete without oysters. Men bet oysters ; 
women dote upon oysters ; children cry for oysters. 
Before the softening influence of oysters, human auster- 



OYSTERS. 297 

ity bends, and kindness irradiates features before dark 
with clouds. Their odor is grateful to the nostrils as 
the odor of virtue is to the inward sense ; we inhale 
the steamy and savory effluence from the kitchen as a 
harbinger of pleasant tastes ; fancy burns in anticipa- 
tion of fancy roasts, or indulges in stupendous imagin- 
ings of stews, and poesy winds its shell — an oyster- 
shell — in sounding the praise of oysters. Euddy 
Margaret, as she bears the tureen to the table, the epi- 
curean censer, steaming with holy incense to the deity 
of appetite, becomes invested with new interest. She 
looks, maugre her ^^ Cork-red" cheeks, angelic amid the 
misty vapors of an oyster-stew. We draw around the 
board, happy in gustatory anticipations, never to be 
disappointed, and uncover (the oyster-dish) in rever- 
ence for the occasion, a meet grace before oysters. And 
participation does not pall, hke other pleasures ; — we 
ponder, and dream, and poetize, over our bowl, as the 
ancients did over their bowl of wine, and are as loth 
to leave it. But there is no poison in this bowl ; no 
fiend lurking therein to set the brain on fire ; no brawls 
waiting upon it, or frenzy, or headache. Wordsworth's 
love of oysters was remarkable ; and all who are familiar 
with his writings will recall the following : 

Thy history, my oyster, -who may tell — 

Thy antecedents, and thy hopes and loves ? 

In oozy mud thou mak'st thy humble bed. 

Subject to rakes that dare its fold invade. 

To drag thee from thy home, a sacrifice 

Unto the predatory maw of man. 

Long thirsting for the blood of all thy kind. 

Delicious bivalve ! how my heart expands 

As I thy many beauties contemplate ! 

The cruel knife has rent thee from thy shell 

— Ah ! what shall pay such most inhuman rent? — 

Not unresisting, and, as on the plate 



298 CALIFOENIA TAN. 

Thou liest, quiyering, droTmed in saline tears, 
Tliou seem'st a fitting subject for the muse. 
The throb of pity tuggeth at my heart, 
As thus I view thee hapless, hopeless, lie • 
A love beyond all words absorbs my soul. 
Yes, thou art lovely, and for thee e'en now 
May some lone oyster pine in lands afar, 
"Where Old Virginia hides its teeming beds 
Beneath the Chesapeake's translucent tides ! 
'Tis thus I '11 hide thee, my tender one. 
And, plungiag thee beneath this acid wave, 
"With pepper intermixed, and salt preadded, 
I poise thee gently on my waiting fork. 
Gaze for an instant on thy pleasing shape, 
Then ope my mouth awaiting for the prize — 
And then a gulp — a sigh — and all is done. 



CALIFORNIA TAN. 

" So you Ve been to Californy/' said Mrs. Partington, 
with animation, as Smith the younger returned from 
the land of gold, with a new suit of clothes on his back, 
and enough hair on his face to stuff a mattress with ; 
'' so you 've been to Californy, and they say you have 
amazed a fortin." He assured her, with a twist of his 
long beard, and a half smile, that was a half-affirmative, 
that there was not a grain of truth in it ; but that he 
had picked up a little. " Well, I 'm glad of it, and, if 
you Ve amazed anything, it is more than I thought you 
ever would ; but you have paid terrible dear for it, if 
you have got to look all your hfetime as bad as you do 
now. Dear soul ! How terribly you are tanned ! " 
She said this without her specs, the dark hair having 
deceived her, while Ike, more observing, sat watching 
his opening mouth as he spoke, wondering if he ever 
attempted to eat anything with that arrangement 
about it. 



A GOUTY MAN^S REVEEIE. 299 

A GOUTY MAN'S REVERIE. 

Is this rlieumatic twinge, so industrious at my knee- 
pan, kinking nerve and mind with its intensified, irra- 
diating misery, a devil to torment me before my time ? 
The milk of human kindness, that erewhile has found an 
abiding place in me, has become dried up by the fever 
of insidious disease, or soured like dairy-milk by sum- 
mer thunder. And there is that precious fallacy of 
Shakespeare's staring me in the face, about the uses of 
adversity being sweet. I can fancy that this may be 
the case in many instances, but never in the adversity 
that comes in the form of rheumatic racks and thumb- 
screws. The current of my nature is all turned back 
from its usual course. Do I love my neighbor? No. 
Do I love society? No. Do I wish to make people 
happy? No. I would have a cloud as black and opaque 
as my hat envelop everything at this present moment, 
with no hope of brightness to-morrow. Who said. Pa- 
tience ? It 's hackneyed, and infernally unkind, let me 
tell you, to sit there with your wholesome limbs encased 
in boots, and tell me to be patient. How everything is 
discolored by the gangrene of one's feelings ! The sun 
is darkened by the shawl of my own unhappy spirit 
pinned up against the windows of day; and then sweeps 
by a long train of fanereal fancies — the forms of rheum- 
atic martyrs pass before me, and of ancestors who 
have died of the rheumatism, till I shriek for respite. 
0, for the spirit of the past, I cry, that could, by laying 
on of hands, impart healthiness, sparing to the sufferer 
the added afflictions of bolus and embrocation ! 0, 
sweet Hygeia, on one knee I am able to invoke thy 
aid! Tell me not, man of strange fancies, that my 
distemper partakes of Parnassian qualities ; for I can 



300 IKE AND LION. 

now reveal my genius in limped feet. I M brain thee, 
did I deem thou didst meditate a joke at such a 
time. A man not very long since published a book to 
prove that everything is right in the providence of 
God, and not a wrong or an evil can be left out of our 
lives without impairing their perfectness. Then may 
there not be a use in it, after all ? and, if it be neces- 
sary that I endure a few paroxysms of pain for the sake 
of a great principle, and be a martyr, — though, indeed, 
ne martyr J a paradox that I leave the learned to con- 
strue, — should I not be running counter to Providence 
in condemning and deprecating it ? I '11 think of it 
in meditative calmness and red flannel. May not the 
rheumatism be sent to teach us how to rightly prize the 
home qualities of woman, whose assiduous kindness 
never wearies with doing for us, — who bears with the 
petulance of our peevish nature, and smooths our pil- 
low with a tenderness that commends even distemper 
as a blessing ; and, as she bends over us, with consola- 
tion in her eyes and liniment in her hands, we hail her 
as our good angel, and learn to say, with tolerable 
grace, "sweet are the uses of adversity," — alluding, 
of course, to the rheumatism. 



IKE AND LION. 



" Well, what upon earth are you doing now ? " said 
Mrs. Partington, with a tone of anxiety in her voice, 
and a large iron spoon in her hand, as Lion rushed into 
the kitchen, followed by Ike. The dog was almost 
covered up with a thick, coarse coffee-bag, and, in per- 
fect sympathy with Ike, who was laughing tremen- 
dously, he wagged his caudality as if he liked the fun. 
" What upon earth are you doing now ? " was a ques- 



' - !\ 




Tl.at's a crinoline, aunt," said 



Ike, "don't you thkik it's very overcoming." P. 301. 



IKE AND LION. 301 

tion that called for an answer ; and Lion looked up in 
the old lady's face, with his month open and his eyes 
glistening, as much as to say, " Look at me. Mistress 
P., for I am all dressed up, you see." But he didn't 
say anything. " That 's a crinoline, aunt," said Ike ; 
" don't you think it 's very overcoming ? " — " Yes ; I 
declare," said she, " I think it comes over him a good 
deal ; but you had better take it off, for it makes him 
look very ridiculous." — " It 's all the fashion," said 
Ike. — "All the fiddlestick!" replied she; "and how 
should I look in the fashion, all hooped up like a mash- 
tub ? Should n't I look well ? No, dear, no. I don 't 
want to portend to be more than I really am ; and, if I 
have n't been made so unanimous as some, I don't want 
to cast no reflections on heaven for not making me 
no larger, by rigging on artificial purportions. It used 
to be the remark of Elder Stick that every tub should 
stand on its own bottom ,* and, though this may n't have 
nothing to do with it, I want to see folks jest as they 
are. And now what are you at?" cried she, breaking off 
in her subject shorter than pie-crust ; and well she might, 
for Lion was parading the floor in great glee, with 
one of the dame's night-caps upon his head, tied snugly 
under the chin, while Ike stood looking on, with great 
complacency. "Dear me," said she, dropping into a chair, 
" I am afraid your predestination will not be a good one, 
if you go on so ; and little boys who tease their aunts 
don't go to heaven, by a great sight." Ike was much 
subdued by this, and, taking advantage of her moment- 
ary abstraction and three doughnuts, he whistled for 
Lion, and went out to play. 
26 



302 ON A child's picture. 



ON A CHILD'S PICTURE. 

Sweet memory of one now named as dead ! 

A beauteous ray from life's effulgent light, j 

That but a moment its glad brightness shed, ^ 

Then vanished, heavenward to wing its flight ! 

That smile stiU beams, which late made glad the heart, — 

Like a fair ripple frozen in its course ; 
That eye as then its burning glance doth dart, 

Lit by a love high heaven alone its source. 

One only glimpse thou givest of the face 

"Whereon a thousand graces ever shone ; 
"We turn from thee, and in our sadness trace 

Those faded charms in memory's light alone. 

Thou 'rt but one line of a fair-printed page, — 

A sweet abstraction, wanting all the rest, — 
One drop of water, that cannot assuage 

The longing thirst that burns within our breast. 

That brow is but a shadow to our gaze. 

Those cheeks but semblances in pictured stone. 
Those beaming eyes emit but frozen rays. 

Those lips give back no warmth to greet our own. 

! mockery of life, in loveless frost ! I 

All that thou art is but a tiny grain 
Of the great treasure that our heart has lost. 

And small thy power to ease our bitter pain. 

Yet how we prize thee ! soulless though thou art, — 

The ghost of loveliness that once was ours, — 
Thou quickenest drooping faith within our heart. 

And liftest up the cloud that o'er us lowers, — 

Letting God's holy light upon the scene. 

And drawing our sad spirits up to His ! — 
Art gives sweet evidence of what has beeUf 

And faith assurance that what has been is. 



WEARING ORNAMENTS. — OPERATIC. 303 



WEARING ORNAMENTS. 

An immense business is done merely in preparing 
ornaments for the person, and many people make np 
dismal faces as they mention personal ornaments among 
the frivolities of life. Used according to the dictates 
of taste and judgment, they greatly enhance personal 
attraction ; but, when used merely for the sake of dis- 
play, they take from the effect of the personal, and 
become merely a pecuniary consideration, — a glitter- 
ing bait to tempt some covetous gudgeon, or to drive 
to despair some rival, whose diamond mine has not 
yielded so prolifically. A correct taste sees in the 
simpler adornment more grace than in the profuse, and 
never exceeds the propriety of decoration ; and, though 
her jewel-box sparkle as richly as Golconda with dia- 
monds, she who possesses this taste will never endanger 
the effect of beauty, if simplicity is its best adornment, 
to display a fortune in gems that a princess might covet. 
The vulgar shine in the ostentation of decoration, — 
they blaze in the quantity of magnificence, like a deco- 
ration of a temple for a fete-day by one who believes 
that in the amount of bunting and Chinese lanterns is 
the summum honum of decorative art. 



OPERATIC 



" What a strain that is ! " said Mrs. Partington, as she 
heard an aria from Lucia, sung in the highest style, by 
a young lady where she was visiting. — "Yes," was the 
reply, " it is operatic." — " Upper attic, is it ?" said she ; 
'^ 1 should think it was high enough to be on top of 
the house." Mrs. Partington does not beHeve that 
mere screaming constitutes melody. 



304 A NAEEOW ESCAPE. 



A XAEROW ESCAPE. 



Some people come very near matrimony and miss it, 
as we have read of those who fell asleep, in their wan- 
derings in the dark, upon the edge of fearful precipices, 
and waked in the momino' verv thankful for their 
escape. We wish to be distinctly understood that the 
last clause in the simile only applies to the unpleasant 
nap alluded to. We heard a reason given by a bachelor 
to his son for never getting married, — we believe, how- 
ever, that it was his nephew that the reason was given 
to, but it is of small consequence, — where the indi- 
vidual came nigh marriage, and escaped, that we think 
worth statins:. When vounoj Plume became of ao^e, he 
was very good-looking, and possessed a fortune in more 
substantial goods, besides. He was a subject for ten 
thousand, more or less, direct matrimonial attacks, but 
resisted them all like a man. Many were after him, 
and, as he plumed himself upon his good looks, he 
deemed that Plume was what thev sous'ht, and never 
once imaoined that a mercenarv idea reo'ardins: him and 
his money could enter into the fair heads that contrived 
to attract him, or the hearts that beat for him. He was 
one day speaking of the general homage that was ac- 
corded him, and manifested considerable delight thereat. 
'' Ah, my young friend,'' said Mr. Oldbird, " this is very 
fine, but do not deem that all this homage proceeds 
from personal consideration. If you had n't money, it 
wouldn't be thus, depend upon it.''" — ^^ You are mis- 
taken,'''' rephed Plume, warmly ; •' I know you are mis- 
taken."' — '- Well,''' said Oldbird, patting his cane, •'• I '11 
tell you what I '11 do : I '11 wager that the one you value 
the most would jilt you, if she thought you hadn't the 
tin.*' — ^-'It is a — ''* he checked himself, and concluded 



A NARROW ESCAPE. 305 

the sentence with — ^^ a very preposterous idea.'' They 
separated, and as he recalled that one whom he valued 
the most, he felt that he had done her nothing but jus- 
tice in defending her against the attack of Oldbird. 
That night he resolved that he would test the fact. He 
would glean the delicious truth, that she loved him for 
himself alone, from her own ruby lips. He had been 
long regarded as an eligible match by her anxious 
parents, and a crisis was momentarily looked for by 
them. " Julia," said Plume, as they sat in the arbor, 
"if I were as poor as that chap, there now engaged in 
the miserable business of unloading potatoes, you would 
not love me." — " 0, how can you wound me by so 
unjust a suspicion? You should know that nothing 
mercenary mingles with my love ; that, were you re- 
duced to not more than two or three thousand dollars a 
year, you would be just as dear to me." Plume kissed 
her, and, whispering that he wished to confer with her 
paternal, he left her. He turned to where he knew that 
tender parent was to be found at that hour, enjoying a 
nap in his easy-chair. Suddenly awaking, he rubbed 
his eyes, and looked at Plume, who stood before him. 
" Eespected sir," Plume began, " I love your daughter." 
— " So do I," said the old man, chuckling. — " I would 
marry her," continued the lover. — " Yery well," said 
the father, " that 's right ; you shall have her." — " But," 
said Plume, " it is nothing but right that you should 
know my affairs ; I 'm rich, you know." — "I know it ; 
at least, I suppose so." — " But," continued Plume, 
" my money is invested in a queer way. It is all in 
copper stocks and railroad bonds, that have n't paid a 
cent of dividend for ten years ; and, though it probably 
will all come out well enough, I can't see exactly when." 
The old gentleman started up. " Stocks ! " cried he, in 
26* 



306 THE WOELD. 

a tone of voice that would have done credit to Elder Kean^ 
the eminent tragedian; "ruinous risks — ruinous risks, sir 
— my daughter cannot marry mortgage-bonds and copper 
certificates ! Sell your stocks, wait a year, and then we '11 
see." Plume ran for comfort to JuKa. " Dearest," said 
he, " I am in despair. Can you marry Pewabic ? Will 
you annex your fortunes to Ogdensburg ? " She had 
listened at the door, and knew all. — " I think," said she, 
in a voice tender with emotion, " we 'd better wait a 
year." He thought so, too, and left. The next day's in- 
quiry revealed that Plume did not own a dollar's worth 
of any stock he had named, and the old man found he 
had put his foot in it. Plume never went again, and 
when, in a warm letter, reminded of his former intimacy, 
he was requested to renew it, he simply said he was 
very busy selling his stocks, and could n't possibly 
come. He never believed in human professions after 
that, and always very unjustly reckoned women among 
the copper stocks, and the bonds of matrimony as mort- 
gage-bonds much reduced. That was the reason he 
gave for never getting married. 



THE WORLD. 



This is a funny old world, — a queer mosaic of combina- 
tions, as multihued as the good dame's patch-work quilt 
that was exhibited in the Fair ; everybody sees this, 
and in a spleeny spirit asks, " What 's the use ? " Every- 
thing seems to jump by opposites of feehng and im- 
pulse, and clanging and jarring the big world goes 
round, inharmonious and discordant, we think. We are 
right among it, and it is through our want of faith that 
it is discordant. It is a grand orchestra, the world, and 



NIAGARA FALLS. 307 

all of US are engaged in playing in it, and we cannot 
tell, as each sounds his note, its effect. It seems dis- 
cordant to us, but the Great Leader who notes its time 
sees the harmony in it, sees the effect of the great 
notes sounded by the maestros, and that of the tiny 
efforts of the least, and recognizes in all the elements of 
a perfect harmony. There is encouragement in this 
faith, that, where in self-pride the performer takes upon 
himself airs, his performance is no more valued in the 
grand whole than the humblest second fiddle of them 
all, who sleeps in a garret at night, poorly paid and 
poorly fed. We find it hard to reconcile the difference 
in compensation for performance, but leave that for the 
great day of adjustment. A large balance may then be 
due those who are less favored. What is the use ? In 
this view the use becomes apparent, and the world 
spins down the " ringing grooves of time," adding its 
song to that of the spheres, which gave the first concert 
in the grand academy of the universe. 



NIAGARA FALLS. 

0, SHEET of standard melody sublime ! 

My ravished ears drink in thy liquid notes, — 
A cherislied anthem of the ancient time, 

That, still unchanging, to far ages floats ; 
An " old folks' concert " of undoubted age. 

That fears no check of innovation's bars. 
So perfect that no Vandal dare engage 

To mend the song coeval with the stars ! — 
In hearing of thy solemn monotone, 

The universe with pulseless awe might list, 
Whilst I, struck dumb, hark to its strains alone, 

And feel my wandering soul among the mist. 
That, like an echo of the chorus grand. 
Quavers responsive to the thrilling land. 



308 BALLAD ABOUT BUNKER. 



BALLAD ABOUT BUNKER. 

'T WAS dreadful hot on Bunker's height, — 
The patriots in their tienches lay, — 

While, bellowing with a bitter spite. 
The British cannon blazed away ; 

When Parson Martin wiped his brow, 
And, turning round, to Prescott spoke : 

"I guess I '11 go, if you '11 allow, 
A while among the Charlestown folk. 

" I feel there 's danger to the town, 
I see the clouds there gathering thick ; 

And ere the storm comes rattling down, 
I think I '11 teU. them cut their stick." 

And then he took a glass, — good man ! — 
And through the Tillage made his way ; 

A glass, I mean, with which to scan 
The hostile vessels in the Bay. 

He saw the British barges fill 

With armed soldiers fierce and strong. 

And told the folk it boded ill. 

And that they 'd better push along. 

But no, not they ; a dogged trait 
Lnpelled them to incur the pinch. 

And so they thought they 'd better wait. 
And Yowed they wouldn't budge an inch. 

Again good Parson Martin went 

Down to the Tillage all alone ; 
From digging hard his strength was spent. 

From watching he was weary grown. 

" Now rest ye," goodman Gary said ; 

" Your tottering limbs pray here bestow," 
And pointed to a bounteous bed, 

A solace meet for weary woe. 



ATTENDING THE ANNIVERSARIES. 309 

And on the bed the parson fell, 

But scarcely had his eyelids closed. 
When, crashing through the roof, a shell 

Disturbed the di-eam in -which he dozed. 

" I think," quoth he, upstarting straight, 

" 'T -will be here somewhat warm to-day, 
And that, if you should hap to wait. 

You '11 find the deuce and all to pay." 

And then from out the fated bound 

The people sadly made their tracks. 
But Parson Martin he was found 

Where fell the most determined whacks. 

His heart to heaven went up in prayer 

That it would aid each mother's son ; 
And heaven made vocal answer there. 

In every deadly patriot gun. 



ATTENDING THE ANNI VERS AEIES. 

Ike came home, soaking with the wet, and threw him- 
self in a chair, and his cap at a nail on the opposite wall. 
" Well, Isaac," said Mrs. Partington, with a slight cloud 
on her brow, ^' where have you been ? " — " Been to the 
anniversaries," replied he, with a smile playing all round 
his mouth. — " Glad of it," said she, brightening up ; 
" glad of it, and I hope it did you good. What anni- 
versaries have you been 'tending ? " — "I Ve been to 
training, and to the circus," replied the young hopeful, 
looking down at his wet shoes. The old lady sighed 
deeply, as she went about her household affairs, think- 
ing what Avould become of that boy, if he went on so. 



310 THE COUNTRY RIDE. 



THE COUNTRY RIDE. 

BEING A VERACIOUS HISTORY, REVEALING A NEW EXPEDIENT BY WHICH A 
BOSTONIAN STOPPED A RUNAWAY HORSE. 

'T IS a capital thing to ride, they say, 
U'er a country road in a one-horse shay. 

With a country cousin or two in ; 
To crack one's whip in a sporting way. 
And kiss the cousins in mode au fait, 
Which means as often as ever you may. 
With none but the horses to cry out " Nay," 

Or to see what you are doing ; 
It is capital, too, when the skies are blue, 
To drive the shady old forest through. 

And kiss the maids 

'Neath the ambient shades, — 
That is, if such you fancy to do ; 
For myself, I've long renounced such vanities. 
As being among the lesser insanities, 

Tending, Heaven knows. 

To mar the repose 

Of sensitive folk, and such as those 
Who belong to the finer humanities. 

'T was on a day 

Not long away. 
That one, abroad on vacation 
(Somewhere up in New Hampshire State, 
Famous for raising men of weight. 

And hills that stump creation, 
And beautiful streams, and famous trout. 
That fishers skilfully tickle out 

For gastronomication) , 
Took it into his head to ride. 
With a beautiful coz on either side — 

Position most delectable ! — 
The horse he chose was a quiet beast. 
Not disposed to shy in the least. 
Whose speed, 'twas true, had some decreased 

But still he was not rejectable ; 
Not 2.40 nor 40.2, 
But over the road he 'd " put her through " 

In time deemed quite respectable. 



THE COUNTRY RIDE. 311 

His mane was combed and greased anew. 
He wore his tail done up in a queue. 
And he hung his head as if lots he knew. 
In manner very reflectable ! 

Now ofif they go — 

Gee up, gee whoa ! 

There 's fun on a country road, we know. 
And so knows the knight of Hanover — 

(Hanover-street is the one I mean, 

A knight of the yard-stick he, I ween, 

A capital fellow as ever was seen) — 
Who often in youth one ran over. 

He held the reins as a Jehu might. 

Till by and by the horse took fright. 

At something offensive to his sight. 
Or smeU, as some have pretended. 

And well knew the driver that in his way 

A terrible granite boulder lay. 
Just where the road descended ! 

Now, what to do 

He scarcely knew, 
But, heeding the old " in media tu- 

tissimus ibis," on he flew. 
Keeping the road in the middle, 

The while the pony straightened the rein 

So hard it gave his fingers pain. 
And hummed like the string of a fiddle. 
On they sped with jolt and bolt, 
The old horse wild as a yearling colt. 

As maddened and as frisky 
As a toper on a sennight spree, 
Just on the edge of delirium tre'. 
Quenched in him each sane idee. 

By villanous rifle whiskey. 
Out from the doors the people ran, 
Every woman, every man, — 

0, they '11 be killed for certain ! 
And certain it seemed that the hand of Fate 
Only a moment more did wait 

To drop their mortal curtain. 



312 THE COUNTRY RIDE. 

Old Squire Le& was taking Ms tea, — 

Perhaps it was something stronger, — 
'T was a very hot day, and he sipped away 

Than usual a little longer. 

When dash and crash 

There came a smash 
Like a bolt of vengeful thunder 

When the head of a horse 
And half of a chaise, 

With an earthquake's force 
Broke in on his gaze. 
Filling him full of wonder ! 

Right through the side of the house they ran. 
Horse and chaise, and woman and man — 

A most insane intrusion ; — 
That is, they would have done so, but — 
They didn't — the chaise-shafts only cut 
A hole where one his arm might put — 

The rest was an illusion ; 
But there upon the cold, cold ground 
The three excursionists sat around. 

In most sublime confusion. 
Siire such a sight was never seen, 
Such fearful destruction of crinoline. 

And there sat the fallen hero ; 
A moment he thought of his cruel fate. 
And then he placed his hand on his pate 
His wig was gone ! and, bald as a slate. 

He sat there stiff as Zero. 

And Squire Lee, quite jolly was he. 
Well pleased the thing was no sadder ; 

Says he, " My lad, I 'm heartily glad 

You 're not disposed for this to die mad. 
Like those who sometimes dye madder." 

Then Squire Lee 

Gave them some tea. 

And everything ended right merrily. 
And, homeward soon returning, 

The horse behaved like a sensible beast. 

And didn't bolt or shy in the least. 

His wisdom very much increased 
By the lesson he 'd been learning. 



ECONOMY. 313 



ECONOMY. 



We were delighted with Bhf kins' account of his sav- 
ing, by an economical expedient, and give it in nearly 
his own words. " Mr. Blifkins," says my wife, " our 
kitchen needs painting." — "Does it, my dear? Well, 
then, need it must ; for I assure you, Mrs. Blif kins, that 
the accruing dimes do not warrant the outlay, at pres- 
ent." I saw that she was unhappy, and knew that she 
would not relinquish her point. " Mr. Blifkins," said 
she, a few days thereafter, " I have thought of an ex- 
pedient by which we can have our kitchen painted." 
Her face was lighted up with an expression that it too 
seldom wears, as she spoke. She is a great woman for 
expedients, is Mrs. Blif kins. " You can do it yourself ! " 
continued she, touching me with the point of her fore- 
finger in the region of my fourth vest-button. " A dol- 
lar saved," said she, still further, " is as good as a dollar 
earned, you know." I looked with admiration on that 
wonderful specimen of her sex, as she said this, and 
" allowed " (as the western people say) to myself that, 
as an economist, she had no peer. And well I might 
allow it ; for, at the very moment were her shoulders 
covered by a sort of monkey-jacket made of one of my 
worn-out coats, and a pair of galligaskins had assumed 
the form of a basque, that was worn by a juvenile 
Blifkins. " Your suggestion," says I, to my wife, " is a 
good one, and to-morrow shall develop a new phase in 
my character. I will turn artist, and give the world 
evidence of a talent that needed but the Promethean 
spark of necessity to draw it out. I will procure pots 
and brushes, and Michael Angelo, Raphael, Salvator 
Rosa, and Claude Lorraine, shall yield the palm to Blif- 
kins." 

27 



314 ECONOMY. 

Mrs. B. was delighted. '• Mr. Blifkins/' said my wife, 
in the night, as I was about settling into my solid nap, 
" you 'd better make it pale-green."— " Do what ? " said 
I, starting up, forgetting all about the painting.— " The 
paint," replied she. I am afraid that I used some ex- 
pression of spleen that was unworthy of me. I turned 
over to try to sleep again. "Mr. Bhfkins," said my 
wife, " don't you think the window-sills would look bet- 
ter some other color ? " — " Any color you please, my 
dear," said I ; " but let us dismiss the subject from pres- 
ent discussion, as this is no place for a brush." I car- 
ried my point, as she had her paint, and I was allowed 
to sleep. But I was all night dreaming of my under- 
taking. No roseate hues mingled with my sleeping 
fancies, fraught with the odors of celestial bowers ; but 
paint-pots were piled in pyramids about me, brush- 
handles, like boarding-pikes, I encountered everywhere, 
and a villanous smell of raw paint almost suffocated me. 
I was up with the lark, and, after breakfast, went 
down to Bristle, the painter's, to procure my paint. 
That eminent professor of art mixed me two pots of the 
right article, of hues that were of a satisfactory shade, 
and I went home with anticipations of the most exalted 
character. " Mr. Bhf kins," said my wife, " you have 
dreadfully daubed your pants with the paint — strange 
that you should be so careless." Sure enough, on both 
sides I had bestowed impartial donations of the adher- 
ing color. The pants were new, and I had congratu- 
lated myself on their being a wonderful fit. This was a 
discouragement. " Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, " you 'd 
better put on an old pair." I have always boasted of 
my ability to compete with anybody in the particular 
property known as old clothes. I knew that the de- 
cayed fashion of many years hung by their allotted 



ECONOMY. 315 

pegs in the closet, which had been facetiously denom- 
inated the " wardrobe," and hastened to procure the gar- 
ment desired. In the name of all of the tribes of Israel, 
where were the bifurcated teguments that for years had 
met my view ? The pegs were bare, and my first im- 
pression was that they had taken to their own legs, and 
walked away. " Mrs. BHfkins," said I, to my wife, on the 
top of the stairs, and at the top of my lungs, " where 
are the — the — garments ?" I heard her say something 
about " sold," and concluded that she was trying some 
little trick upon me, as wives sometimes will, and was 
adopting the formula so much in vogue for expressing 
it. She came up stairs. ^' Mr. Blifkins," said she, " I de- 
clare, I sold all of your old clothes, only yesterday, for 
a beautiful pair of vases, and some tin ware." I looked 
at her earnestly; but the evident calmness that pre- 
vailed in her own breast softened and subdued the vio- 
lence in mine. " You 'd better put on this," said she, 
holding up an article of female apparel, the name of 
which I disremember, but which, when secured to my 
waist, as I recollect, fell to my feet. She smiled as she 
placed it in my hand, and I put it on. " Mrs. Blifkins," 
said I to my wife, '' why am I, thus accoutred, liable to 
be more extravagant than ever ? " She said she did n't 
know. " Because," said I, triumphantly, " I am bound to 
waist ! " She pretended not to see the reason, and I did 
not explain, but went to work. " Now shall you see, 
wife of my soul," said I, " such work as you can find 
alone in the Vatican at Rome, or the Louvre at Paris, 
should you feel inclined to seek it. Here, before this 
door, I take my stand, and here I commence. You 
shall see." — "Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, "don't drip 
it over on the floor." — " Never fear," said I, dipping in 



316 ECONOMY. 

the brush, and sopping it up against the side in the most 
approved form. 

My first aim was at the upper part of the door, — 
a panelled door, — and I applied the brush vigorously. 
" Mrs. Blif kins," said I, to my wife, " as the morning is 
rather cold, should n't you think it well to put on two 
coats?" She took the pleasantry as an unkind reflec- 
tion on the disposition made of the old clothes,and didn't 
say anything. I worked away on that door, severely ; 
but I found, before I had half done it, a weariness in 
the wrist ; and a cold sensation up my sleeve, attracting 
my attention, revealed the fact that a stream of paint 
was stealing along the handle of the brush up my arm. 
I laid down the implement, and went to procure some- 
thing with which to wipe the paint off. "Mr. Blifkins," 
screamed my wife, " look at the baby ! " I looked, as 
she held that young prodigy up to view, and was much 
shocked. The baby had crawled to the paint-pot, and 
had immersed his two hands to the elbows. Not con- 
tent with this, he had laid hands on the brush, and, when 
Mrs. Blifkins saw him, he was engaged in an insane 
effort to get it into his mouth. The precocity of that 
child is most wonderful ! The paint was washed off, 
and I commenced again. " Mr. Bhfkins," said my wife, 
when I had been working about two hours, with my 
hands cramped, my wrist and back aching, my eyes full 
of paint, and my face tattooed by the same, hke a New 
Zealander, " are you most done ? " The "iVo " that I 
returned I fear was not pleasant. All that forenoon I 
worked at that terrible task, and at about dinner-time ; 
I saw it accomplished. " Mrs. BHf kins," said I, " the 
work is completed ; come and look, and admire." She 
came at my request, and I noticed a mischievous twinkle 
in her eye as she looked. " Why, Mr. Blifkins," said my 



ECONOMY. 317 

wife, "you've put more paint on the paper and the carpet 
than you have anywhere else." Her criticism seemed 
unkind ; but I looked where she had directed, and round 
the doors and window-frames were rays of paint, like 
the surroundings of islands on a map, and below were 
large blotches of paint upon the carpet, that had as- 
sumed geometrical forms enough to have puzzled the 
judgment of a professor. " I confess, my dear, that in 
this particular I have been a little slovenly ; but look at 
that work." — " Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, " if there 's 
no better painting in the what's-its-name at Rome, 1 
don't care about seeing it." The door-bell here rang, 
and, " accoutred as I was," without thinking of it, I 
rushed to see who had come, and met a whole bevy of 
ladies, and suffered the mortification of a sensitive 
nature under such circumstances. I here sum up the 
whole : 

J. Blifldns in account loitli Domestic Economy. 



1858. Dr. 

To painting one room, $5,00 



To Balance, $25.50 



$30.50 



1858. Cr. 
Time and labor spent in paint- 
ing, $3.50 

Pants spoilt in ditto, 8.00 

Paint, 1.00 

Spoiling carpet, 3.00 

Daubing wall, 5.00 

Mortification, 10.00 



$30.50 



I throw in the dangerous experiment of the baby 
and the injury to health, both of which, could they be 
estimated by numbers, would swell the amount to an 
alarming figure. I came solemnly to the conclusion 
that it would have been better to have hired it done. 

Such was Mr. BHfkins' story about his economy. It 
is a case not much over-stated. 
27* 



il8 life's masquerade. 



LIFE'S MASQUERADE. 

Put on your mask, living soul ! and hide 
Your features fi'om the world's obtrusive eye, 

As, launched upon the turbid earthy tide, 
"We float unheeded on its current by. 

For there be rich emotions quick in thee, 

Lnprisoned gems, and thoughts of import sweet. 

That might, whate'er their priceless rarity. 
Fall sacrifice beneath unworthy feet. 

I would not have the coarse and careless look 
Profane the spot where my hushed step has trod. 

Where conscience keeps its daily record-book 
In just accordance 'twixt itself and God. 

The vulgar glance would seem like baleful light. 
And to my shuddering sense a thrill impart. 

Like that the touch of vagrant fingers might, 

Feeling in darkness round my slumbering heart ! 

Put on the mask, and let it haply wear 
A smile, to feign it were but lightly donned, 

Gayly as though you had no real share 
In aught the present sly deceit beyond. 

So shaU you, my soul, the meed obtain 

Frivolity to folly ever brings ; 
But not one tassel of the golden grain 

Worthy to shrine among your treasured things. 

But, though thus hidden, there be those for whom. 
When the world sees not, you may drop the mask : 

Twin with yourself in feeling, give them room, 
And in a warm reciprocation bask. 

And let such incidents of transient joy, 

Through memory's aid, delightedness impart ; — 

The world cannot joy's secret seeds destroy. 
Sown by God's husbandmen within the heart. 



MRS. PARTINGTON PHILOSOPHIZING. S19 

0, haste the time Avhen, masking disallowed, 

The soul stands up in grandeur unconcealed, 
Of its own new-found birthright duly proud, — 

The right to live in truthfiilness revealed. 



MRS. PARTINGTON PHILOSOPHIZING. 

" I 'VE always noticed/^ said Mrs. Partington, dropping 
her voice to the key that people adopt when they are 
disposed to be philosophical or moral — "I Ve always 
noticed that every year added to a man's life has a ten- 
derness to make him older, just as a man who goes a 
journey finds, as he jogs on, that every mile-stone 
brings him nearer to the place where he is going, and 
further from where he started. I have n't got the ex- 
orbitance of feeling that I had once, and I don't believe 
I shall ever have it again, if I live to the age of Methu- 
saleh, which, heaven knows, I don't want to. And, 
speaking of long life, I have n't any desire to live any 
longer than the breath remains in my body, if it is n't 
any more than eighty years. I would n't wish to be a 
centurion, and the idea of one surviving her factories, 
and becoming idiomatic, always gives me a disagreeable 
sensoriousness. But whatever is to be will be, and 
there is no knowing how a thing will turn out till it 
takes place. Gracious goodness ! " she exclaimed, as a 
torpedo snapped on the floor by her feet; " you might 
as well kill a body as frightem 'em to death. Isaac ! " 
Ike did n't respond ; but, Mrs. P., hadst thou but glanced 
through the window, thou mightst have seen a little 
face, hid just below the window-sill, beaming with mirth 
and jollity, and it is more than probable that a portion 
of the coppers thou gavest the boy hath returned to 
plague the investor. 



H20 LUCK. 



LUCK. 



Luck is a sort of semi-Providence, or substitute for 
Providence, which some beheve in as a controUing 
power in human destiny ,* deeming that it begins with 
man's existence, and goes all the way through with him, 
administering on this hand the choicest tit-bits that fall 
to human enjoyment, and, on the other, hard fare, com- 
prising the whole catalogue of ills. Some, through the 
magic of superseeing Luck, turn everything to gold that 
they look upon ; while others, so strange is Luck, have 
all that which is gold turn to ashes in their hands. To 
be lucky is the grand desideratum, — the cardinal point 
in human fortune, — though the proportion of lucky 
ones to the unlucky is very small. It is curious to 
trace the operations of Luck in its results. Lord 
Timothy Dexter affords us an excellent example. But 
examples everywhere occur. A dozen boys start on 
the road of life, with equal advantages, equally endowed 
with capacity, equally ambitious, and equally hopeful. 
One of them alone will be lucky, the rest will fail sig- 
nally ; the one will never lose a dollar, the rest wiU 
never save a cent. In every transaction Luck is evi- 
dent. Two men may embark in the same business, in 
which double the amount of exertion on the one part is 
expended that there is on the other, and he who 
makes the least will win. Why, no one knows. It is 
Luck, and that is all that can be said about it. Hood's 
unlucky man in Tylney HaU, to whom all manner of 
adverses happened, was a melancholy instance of the 
victim to unrelenting Luck. He, it is remembered, at 
eome crowning calamity, asked that a handful of sudden 
deaths might be thrown down, for one of which he said 
he would scramble, as heartily as ever a beg^gar 



ON SUCH A NIGHT AS THIS. 321 

scrambled for a sixpence. This feeling often takes 
possession of one, when badgered and cornered of Fate ; 
but it is wrong to feel so. When the great and true 
light breaks upon us, by which we shall see the real 
meaning of things, we may find that ill-luck, with its 
experience of sorrow and aggravation, is not so ill, 
after all ; and that Fate, so inconsiderably spoken about, 
may be Providence in disguise, working for good 
through the medium of dark circumstance, to be shown 
in future realization, while in that light the specious 
show of good luck may prove but the tinsel decoration 
that belongs merely to time, and flashes no ray beyond. 
It may not always be lucky to be in luck. 



ON SUCH A NIGHT AS THIS. 

The angry rain is cold "wittiotit, 

The wind is bleak and high, 
And as we sit the hearth about, 

And hear the storm go by, 
We glance out through the spreading gloom, 

While pain invades our bliss, 
And sigh and say, God help tlie poor. 

On such a night as this ! 

And then our thought far o'er the main 

On ready pinion speeds, — 
Thought needs no shelter from the rain, 

As the poor body needs ; — 
We see the white-capped waves uprear, 

Below, the dai-k abyss ; 
Heaven guard the sailor ! is our prayer. 

On such a night as this. 

The ruddy fire sends forth its glow. 

And cheerful faces meet. 
Where conversation's charms outflow 

In loving cadence sweet ; 



ON SUCH A NIGHT AS THIS. 

The raging -winds our ears assail. 

And by the casement hiss. 
Our haven shields us from the gale. 

On such a night as this. 

And thoughts of distant friends awake. 

And thoughts of bygone hours, 
When their fond offices of love 

Besti-ewed our path -with flowers. 
Where are they now, the loved, the lost. 

Whose forms we ever miss ? 
Turn they a passing thought for us 

On such a night as this ? 

And one sweet child, our joy and pride, 

Has wandered from our sight. 
We miss her prattle by our side. 

We miss her eyes so bright ; 
We know she dwells where storms ne'er come 

To mar her perfect bliss ; 
! does her tender thought come home, 

On such a night as this ? 

The social game or books beguile 

The hours as they flee ; 
The pleasant word awakes the smile 

The genial love to see ; 
The surging of the angry rain 

Cannot disturb, I wis. 
The goodly cheer that clusters here. 

On such a night as this. 

With grateful thrill the heart outpours, 

Though winds and rains assail ; 
We have no fear within our doors. 

Where love and peace prevail ; 
The rattling rain may dash amain. 

It hinders not our kiss — 
That household charm the heart doth warm. 

On such a night as this. 



THE EEASON. 323 



THE REASON. 



A PLEASANT story is told about a minister of our 
denomination, who obtained much notoriety in this 
vicinity, a few years since, for his good-nature and keen 
wit, and whose sayings are treasured still as choice 
things to while away an hour withal, and make it pass 
pleasantly. He now officiates acceptably a short dis- 
tance in the interior, and, from the following specimen, 
we should deem that he had not departed from the 
geniality of faith that erewhile distinguished him. A 
widow lady of his acquaintance, who had sighed in her 
loneliness for some years, had received a proposition to 
marry again, and had made up her mind to accept ; yet 
she thought she would go through the form of asking 
the advice of her friend the parson. He came in, one 
day, and she broached the subject very delicately, by 
intimating that she thought of improving her condition. 
" My dear madam," said he, looking admiringly at her 
healthy form, " that, I think, would be impossible, as I 
never saw you in finer condition in my life." — ^' I 
mean," said she, blushing, " that I thought of changing 
my situation." — "Very injudicious," said he, looking 
out of the window ; " your situation here is very fine, 
and it would be hard to find a better." — " You do not 
divine my meaning, sir," persisted she ; " my little 
Edward is now of an age when a father's authority is 
essential for his control, and, having an advantageous 
offer, I thought I should get married again." This 
was said so timidly, and the eyes were cast down so 
sensitively, that it was very touching in the widow. 
'^ Ah ! " said he, " that is it, then ; and so you are going 
to get married to raise Ned, are you ? " The crimson 
deepened a little in the widow's cheek, and the light 



324 THE banker's dee am. 

quickened in her eye ; but she knew the kind heart of 
the man that spoke the pleasantry, and she was not 
angry. His congratulations and advice were given, 
and she was happy. 



THE BANKER'S DREAM. 

The long, long day had wearily flown. 
And now 'neath his own roof-tree 

The banker sat by his hearth alone, 
And an anxious man was he, — 

No cheerful light from his eyes outshone, 
As he sighed right heavily. 

He had felt the fever and fearful strife, — 

That gnawing at the heart, 
Which, with trouble and sorrow rife. 

Had swept above the mart ; 
And he thought of the joys of a humble life. 

From cares like his apart. 

His aching eyelids drooped to a close. 

His head sank on his breast ; 
Forgot was the world, its ills and woes. 

In the moment of peaceful rest. 
And the wave of sorrow that round him rose 

A joyful hope expressed. 

No notes to pay mixed with his dreams, — 

He moved as free as the air, — 
No speculation's subtle schemes 

In his present thoughts had share. 
But plenty around him shed its beams. 

And followed him everywhere. 

Domestic joy upon him smiled, 

And he felt its blissful power ; 
The precious presence of wife and child 

Illumed his peaceful bower ; 
And the sweets of home the ill beguiled 

Of every passing hour. 



THE banker's dream. 325 

All faces were lit •with glad content : 

The clay of banks had flown ; 
By joy men reckoned their rate per cent.. 

And owned this rule alone ; 
And the sharpers who by usury lent 

Had all to Tophet gone. 

And growing love 'twixt man and man 

Assumed the selfish place, 
And a happy brotherhood began 

Again to unite the race, 
And man ne'er from his brother ran. 

With shame on his bankrupt face. 

The busy wheels of a thousand mills 

Made music grandly sweet, 
And the cattle upon a thousand hills 

Looked comely, sleek, and neat, 
While Labor smiled by the mountain rills. 

With plenty and peace replete. 

And calmly he slept in his ample chair. 

His breathing was soft and low ; 
No darkened shapes obtruded there. 

With their burthen of pressing woe ; 
Forgot was the gloomy weight of care 

That had checked his spirit's flow. 

He started and woke. " Sweet yision, stay ! 

0, can it be all in vain ? 
Must the beauteous and angelic ray 

Be lost in the clouds of pain ? 
I 'd give all my hopes of wealth to-day. 

To dream that dream again." 
28 



326 SEA-SICKNESS. 



SEA-SICKNESS. 



Among the disagreeables that chance to fall upon 
humanity, there is nothing more painful than sea-sick- 
ness. Those who go down on the sea for fun, after 
reading romances glowing with eulogies of the ocean, 
or poetry liquid with its praises, think they are going 
to have a nice time. They laugh, and sing, and joke, 
and ajBfect sea-talk, and look after the small stores, and 
indulge in thoughts of chowder, and even a broad hint 
of fat pork fails to awaken any other feeling but one of 
mirth. Thus they start. The breeze is fair, the water 
is smooth, and far off is the deep sea, that " likeness of 
heaven" they have read about, and which they will 
now become acquainted with. By and by a motion in 
the vessel is perceptible. Rising and falling with the 
sea, she pitches in, right and left. A glance over the 
side reveals the yeasty waves dancing in a mad game 
of touch and run, here, there, and everywhere, up and 
down. Here is a hill to climb, and here a vale to cross. 
Now right in her teeth the vessel meets the sea, and 
trembles from stem to stern. Anon she receives a blow 
on one side, and then, without turning the other also, 
she gets one on the opposite side. Mr. Yerigreen, who 
was so gay a moment ago, is now very ill. He smiles, 
hoAvever, as he is addressed, and swears it is the to- 
bacco. The smile is a base counterfeit, — a lie, — for 
there is no joy in his heart. He cannot define the feel- 
ing that fills him. There is an utter goneness about 
him. It is dreadful. There is a grateful smell of 
chowder from the galley. To Yerigreen it is ex- 
ecrable. He thinks of the beautiful shore and its sub- 
stantial rocks, and wonders why anybody ever wants to 
go to sea. The sea, as if angry at his uncomplimentary 



SEA-SICKNESS. 327 

reflection, growls and hisses all around him. His head 
aches, and his heart aches. Comfort with him has long- 
since fled. He still thinks, if it had n't been for the 
cigars, he should have done very well. There never 
was a vessel before, he knows, that pitched so much, 
and he asks the man at the helm if he can't hold her a 
little more steady. Will he be just so polite as to try ? 
He is a stern man, — he is always astern man, — and 
laughs at poor Yerigreen. Everybody laughs at him. 
They call upon him for small stores, and he answers 
with a groan ; they try him with cigars, and he puts 
them by ; they hifit at pork and molasses, and he col- 
lapses. He begs them to throw him overboard, as an 
act of personal kindness. He condemns the cigars. He 
sits next the rail, because the prospect is better. There 
is lead on his stomach, and he throws it. He knows he 
should not have been sick but for the cigars. Poor 
Verigreen ! there is no mercy or compassion for him. 
His experience ended, hear him, as his foot presses 
terra firma, record his opinion of the sea : " Great is thy 
majesty, Ocean ! Thy waves are high, and thy waters 
brackish. Powerful are th<ey, besides, and very tumult- 
uous. Poetry has sung thy praises, and eloquence 
spouted thy glorification. And I have believed them, 
— have yielded myself to the fascination of the delusive 
song, that, like the chant of the siren, has brought me 
to sorrow and misery. Henceforth, Ocean ! when 
thy beauties I would contemplate, I will hie me to a 
high hill and feast my eyes, nor trust thy unstable 
waters more." 



328 HOW CURIOUS IT IS! 

HOW CURIOUS IT IS! 

When the life of Daniel Webster — tliat grand drama 
— was about drawing to a close, he is represented to 
have said, " Life — Life — how curious it is ! " The 
word curious was deemed a strange one, but it ex- 
pressed the very thing. How curious life is, from 
the cradle to the grave ! The forming mind of child- 
hood, busy with the present, and unable to guess the 
secret of its own existence, is curious. The hopes of 
youth are curious, reaching forward into the future, and 
building castles in the perspective fof those who enter- 
tain them, that will fade away in the sunlight of an 
older experience. How curious is the first dawning of 
love, when the young heart surrenders itself to its 
dreams of bliss, illumined with — moonshine ! How curi- 
ous it is, when marriage crowns the wishes, to find the 
cares of life but begun, and the path all strewn with 
anxieties, that romance had depicted as a road of 
flowers ! How curious it is, says the young mother, as 
she spreads upon her own the tiny hand of her child, 
and endeavors to read, in • its dim lines, the fortune 
there hidden ! Curious, indeed, would such revealing 
be. How curious is the greed for gain that controls 
too much the life of man, leading him away after 
strange gods, forgetting all the object and good of life 
in a chase for a phantom light, that ends at last in three- 
fold Egyptian darkness ! How curious is the love of life 
that clings to the old, and draws them back imploringly 
to earth, begging for a longer look at time and its fri- 
volities, with eternity and all its joys within their reach ! 
How curious it is, when at length the great end draws 
nigh, — the glazing eye, the struggle, the groan, pro- 
claiming dissolution, and the still clay — so still ! — that 



EARTH SPEAKETH TO EARTH. 329 

lately stood by our side in the pride of health and hap- 
piness ! How curious it is that the realities of the im- 
mortal world should be based upon the crumbling 
vanities of this, and that the path to infinite life should 
be through the dark shadow of the grave ! How curi- 
ous it is, in its business and its pleasures, its joys and 
its sorrows, its hopes and its fears, its temptations and 
its triumphs ; and, as we contemplate life in all its mani- 
festations, we needs must exclaim, " How curious 
^'t is ! " 



EAETH SPEAKETH TO EAKTH. 

A GRAVE LTRIC. 

I LEANTD me over a grave-yard wall. 

Where the grass before me grew rank and tall. 

And bowed in the wind its heavy head, 

As if in reverence for the dead ; 

The acacia-tree rustled its mournful leaves. 

Like the rustle of silk when the widow grieves : 

As I listened, a still voice met my ear — 

Come over here ! come over here ! 

Come over here ! come over here ! 
Said the old calm grave-yard dark and drear ; 
I will hold you clasped in a fond embrace. 
And watch o'er your silent resting-place. 
The grand old trees o'er your bed shall swing. 
And the birds in the waving branches sing ; 
Naught shall disturb your slumbering ear — 
Come over here ! come over here ! 

Come over here ! come over here ! 
Leave the world with its tumult, its strife and fear ; 
Here is peace that speaks from the deep green grass 
In whispers, as o'er it the breezes pass ; 
Here is quiet and rest to the weary heart, 
That long has suffered 'neath sorrow's smart ; 
0, leave the heart-ache anguish drear — 
Come over here ! come over here ! 
28* 



330 WITHOUT A SPECK. 

Come over liere ! come over here ! 
This is the garner of many a year ; 
This is the bourn where the weary rest. 
The high and lowly, the bad and best ; 
Their voice is stilled and their heart is cold. 
In the chiUy damp of the grave-yard mould, 
But from their forms bright things uprear — 
Come over here ! come over here ! 

Come over here ! come over here ! 

The child, and the youth, and the old man sere. 

Have lent their strength and lent their charms 

To grace the grave-yard's folding arms ! 

I will deck your couch with the vernal flowers. 

And tears shall fall in the summer showers. 

The smiling sun your bed shall cheer — 

Come over here ! come over here ! 

Come over here ! come over here ! 

0, gaze not on me with looks of fear. 

I will clasp you close to my motherly heart 

Till you grow of my very self a part ; 

My teeming breast shall yield anew 

With the strength of its motherly love so true ; 

For the mother earth loves her children dear — 

Come over here ! come over here ! 



WITHOUT A SPECK. 

Mrs. Partington, in speaking of one who had enjoyed 
the blessing of good sight up to a late period of her 
life, said '^ she never had a speck on in her life." What 
a consolation it would be for us, when we get into the 
vale of years, if, in " looking back o'er the scene of our 
errors," we could say the same in a moral sense, with 
never a speck on our escutcheon to reproach us ! Alas ! 
the best of us, in such position, would see many dark 
specks, and our life, like a pear over-ripe, prove to be 
infected with many unsound spots. The best of men 
have so little to be proud of! — even those who are 



FORCED OBEDIENCL. 331 

laboring so hard in behalf of fallen man now-a-days may 
be found to have the blemish that all possess, in com- 
mon. This is comforting to sinners who are crowded 
down by disadvantageous circumstances, who see the 
shaky tendency of those better than they, and take 
courage. The suspicion of a speck redeems the human- 
ity of the very perfect man. We do not love what the 
world calls perfection. It has no heart beneath its 
jacket ; the throb of sympathy is not there ; it has no 
recognition of kindred weaknesses ; it forgets old ties 
and old obligations. We like to think of the worthies 
who have lived of yore in this light of imperfection — 
to think of men with a speck or so on them, be it never 
so small. To think of Washington, and Paul, and Peter, 
as men, makes us love them better than though they 
were myths. St. Peter's impetuosity and Paul's temper 
endear them to us ; and after reading the denial scene, 
we say, " Peter, you acted like a man ; " and his peni- 
tence w-as more manly still. 



FORCED OBEDIENCE. 

I SAW a damsel holding by a string 

A little puppy, who, disposed to stray, 
Choked at restraint, and made a frequent spring 

In effort vain to tear himself away. 
But yet, the more he strove, the more he choked, 
, Until he deemed his conduct would n't pay. 
And moved along as though he were provoked. 

And held his head down in a sullen way. 
My soul was touched the emblem thus to see 

Of life's too frequent scenes, where day by day 
Strings clog the spirit's elasticity. 

And kill the willingness that would obey, — 
Men, like the puppy, follow at a word, 
But, try to drag them, and their dander 's stirred. 



A LIEE^S FORTUNES. 

It is a simple story, possessing moderate interest, 
of an every-day life. Things of a stranger character 
than these described are happening all the time, and a 
writer need scarcely draw on fancy for his incidents, 
when there are realities enough about him, made to his 
hand. The chief character is no " Don '^ or " Lord ; " but 
a plain man, born of plain parents, and destined for the 
same plain duties and struggles that await all who are 
born outside the pale of luxurious plenty. James Tre- 
vor was a quick-witted and ready youth, indifferently 
honest, very ambitious, and passably good-looking; a 
fair average character, as a boy, — prone to trade and 
boyish speculation, in which he always came off best, — 
selfish as boys almost always are, and enjoyed the repu- 
tation of being " dreadful smart," which old Jacob Tre- 
vor, his father, was very proud to hear, seeing in the 
promise of the title-page a richly-wrought book, as full 
of good things as a Thanksgiving-day is of blessings. 

Mr. Trevor was an old farmer in a back town in Mas- 
sachusetts — Sweetfern, I will call it, though there is 
not a sprig of that fragrant herb within many miles of 
it. He was well to do, as everybody said, though not 
rich. His farm had come to him from his father, one of 
the earliest settlers of Sweetfern, and was the most fer- 
tile of any in the section where it was located. The land 
was watered by a beautiful stream that flowed among 

(332) 



A LIFE'S FORTUNES. 333 

the hills, which now serves as a power to turn the 
^vheels of thriving manufactories, but, at the time of 
which I write, was deemed simply a manifestation of 
the good- will of Providence towards the Trevors. The 
Trevors were out in the Revolution, and James could 
point to Bennington and Saratoga, in which his grand- 
father and father both figured, or go away back into the 
French war, where his grandfather was wounded in the 
ambuscade at Fort Edward, at the time Colonel Wil- 
liams was killed. 

"When James Trevor was about sixteen years old, 
his father informed him that he had procured him a 
position in a store, in a town some miles away from 
Sweetfern; which announcement he received with great 
pleasure, as he had become weary of the monot- 
ony of farm-life. The store was a new field for the 
development of his budding genius, and he accepted 
the position without any hesitation. The next week 
saw him installed in the coveted situation. It was a 
large country store, occupied by Edes & Co., the name 
of which firm Avas blazoned on a wide, white sign, ex- 
tending along the whole front of the largest building in 
the place ; and, by the side of the door, on long strips 
of black board, were painted the names of the various 
articles sold there — molasses and muslin, tobacco and 
tongues-and-sounds, crockery and crackers, Indian-meal 
and indigo, hats and hay, calcined magnesia and calico, 
and " other articles too numerous to mention," as the 
advertisement of the firm in the local paper expressed 
it. It was said of Edes' plug-tobacco, by the farmers, 
that he soaked it in a little brandy and a little molasses, 
and it was as good as any they ever wanted to see. 
Contented souls ! they had not yet dreamed of the bliss 
of silver-leaf. 



334 A life's fortunes. 

Tims, at sixteen, James Trevor found himself in busi- 
ness, indentured, as was the custom in those days, to 
learn the trade of a country storekeeper, with a quick 
fortune and a life of dignified ease in perspective. He 
dashed into the performance of his duties with all the 
enthusiasm of a boy, and became very soon convinced 
that on his individual efforts alone the existence of the 
firm of Edes & Co. particularly depended. Mr. Edes 
was an aristocrat, by nature, — a village aristocrat, one 
of the meanest and most contemptible of that class, 
who by a shrewd venture in early life had made a 
large sum, with which he had embarked in trade, and 
been very successful. Fortune, however, rather than 
sagacity, had favored him. He had small intelligence, 
and less feeling, and was most distinguished for the 
tenacity with which he would hold on to a dollar when 
he got it. He never lost a cent in his life, and never 
gave away one until he had ciphered out its return 
through some other channel. He was a strict attendant 
upon church, and his whole household — consisting of 
an only daughter, a half-sister, Mr. Merrow, the Co. of 
his firm, who boarded with him, and James Trevor — 
were expected to accompany him ; which meant that 
they must go — and they did. 

Julia Edes, the daughter, was a delicate and pensive 
child. Her mother had died when she was quite young, 
and her father's half-sister, a maiden lady of forty, had 
been installed mistress of the household, assuming to 
herself the entire charge of the young heiress, a charge 
which the unsympathetic father never interfered with. 
The child's outward wants were all attended to, as was 
her education ; but it was a frosty atmosphere that 
her shrinking nature had to develop itself in. The aunt, 
though a kind woman, had no feeling in common with 



A life's fortunes. 335 

her own. Propriety of conduct was her only ideal of 
human excellence, and work the ultimate of human 
endeavor. She conceived every kind of pleasure to be 
sin ; and hence all of the promptings of the young- 
nature of her charge were checked by the hydrostatic 
influences that weighed her doAvn. The bounds of her 
association with other children were meted out to her, 
beyond which she dare not go ; and constant surveil- 
lance was held upon her conduct, that she might not be 
led into any insubordinate mirth, that would trench on 
the province of propriety. One ghastly skeleton stood 
forever in her young path — the fear of offending ; and, 
though she loved her aunt, it was a love that was be- 
gloomed by that estimable woman, who, like a good 
many other estimable persons, placed herself between 
her and the light of joy. She was named for her aunt, 
and felt grateful for many attentions ; but often, in the 
midst of her tenderest reflections regarding her, the 
thought' would steal in and mar all, that she was a 
slave, and that the poorest child that sported on the 
village-green, or roamed in unrestrained freedom in the 
fields and woods, was an enviable object. 

At the time James Trevor came to reside with her 
father, she was about fifteen years old. She was not 
handsome, and there was a shyness and reserve about 
her that rendered her anything but prepossessing. Her 
.pale, wan face was surmounted by very dark hair, that 
hung in careless masses around her forehead. Her eyes 
were black, and were almost all the time bent upon 
the ground, except at moments when the utterance of a 
fine sentiment, or a note of music, or a strange voice, 
would attract her attention. One quick glance would 
then betray her pleasure or her curiosity, instantly to 
subside again into seeming indifference. Such she ap- 



336 A life's fortunes. 

peared to him when she first fell beneath his eye, and 
he made up his mind that a union with his master's 
daughter at least would form no part in his programme 
of prospective greatness. Beyond merely looking at 
her once or twice his interest did not extend ; for 
an introduction was not deemed essentiaL He was a 
proper, smart-looking lad, of which it is presumed the 
young lady took notice ; for, after she had retired to 
her chamber with her aunt, she remained for some time 
ver}^ thoughtful, and then said, 

" Aunt, don't you think the young man, down stairs, 
very good-looking?" 

" Child ! " replied the aunt, with a tone of sternness 
that turned the maiden's heart to stone, and her lips to 
iron rigidity, " your question is highly improper." 

That was the end of the first lesson, so far as pro- 
priety had anything to say about it ; but, dashing 
madly through her brain, came troops of bewildering 
thoughts, that made her downy pillow a scene of wild 
fancies. Love reared an idol before her, crowned with 
beauty and grace. It smiled upon her, and pointed to 
a vacant pedestal by its side, which, when she strove to 
ascend it, crumbled to pieces ; and, as she gazed, the 
idol also faded away, the roses turned to thorns, and a 
mocking laugh greeted her ears as she awoke. She 
was glad the vision had passed, and felt provoked that 
it had obtruded itself, unsolicited, especially because it 
had not ended happily, as all dreams of love should, 
agreeably to the rule of romance. James Trevor slept 
soundly enough all night ; for his was a mind not yet 
capable of dreaming of anybody or anything but himself. 

First meetings are always tender turning-points in a 
story, wherein mutual love springs into life with the 
glance of the eye or the pressure of the hand. But, 



A life's fortunes. 337 

from the very material fact that neither the glance of 
the eye nor the pressure of the hand were exchanged, 
I am denied the delightful task of describing any such 
phenomenon. They met for some time as strangers, 
never speaking a word, although glances were accident- 
ally exchanged by them at times, throwing both into 
inexplicable confusion, as though they had done some 
guilty thing in looking at each other. 

It was on the second Sunday of James Trevor at the 
Edes's, while on their way to meeting, that Mr. Edes, who 
walked behind with Mr. Merrow, called his sister to his 
side to speak to her upon some matter then uppermost 
in his mind, leaving Julia, with whom she had been 
walking, alone. By one of those strange accidents, 
that happen with great opportuneness to draw people 
together, as though there were some invisible master 
of ceremonies engaged in an eccentric, though sensible, 
mode of introduction, Julia's handkerchief was swept 
out of h'er hand by a gust of wind that, with sportive 
violence, rolled it over and over in the dirt, and bore it 
along with great rudeness, depositing it at the feet of 
James Trevor, who was walking along ahead of the 
party, unmindful of anything that was transpiring. He 
came near stepping upon the delicate fabric, but did 
not; and, as it rolled over again, as if to take another 
start, he reached down and seized it, somewhat as 
though he were afraid of it, and, turning back, placed 
it, with a low bow, in the young lady's hand. She 
received it with a pleasant smile, and a " Thank you,'' 
that by its sweetness gave him a thrill of pleasure he 
had never before experienced. He walked along by 
her side, occasionally glancing at her through the cor 
ner of his eye, and began to think she was very pretty; 
her form, too, taking new grace in his fancy. He 

29 



338 A life's foetunes. 

could n't say anything, however, though he made twenty 
attempts to speak. He had ideas enough, but he couldn't 
think of them. At last, he mustered resolution to say, 
" Miss Edes, I hope we shall be friends." It was an 
immense speech, and its tone was tender and manly, 
too ; and she replied, with charming frankness, '^ I hope 
so, with all my heart ; for I have very few friends." 
Her voice trembled as she said this, the tone of which 
set him to thinking how fine it would be if she were 
shut up in a castle, and were to wave her handkerchief 
from some loophole, and he should see it, and should 
rush in and kill a dragon or two, and the entire garrison 
of men-at-arms, and set her free, and she should accept 
him as her lover ! The train of his thought here ran 
off the track, as the aunt took her place by the side of 
her niece, freezing James Trevor into his old position, 
though he turned the sweet little sentence over in his 
mind that had echoed his hope, and dwelt upon the 
unhappiness conveyed in the remark that she had very 
few friends. 

This first day was the beginning of a more intimate 
relation between the two. They met now as friends, 
whenever they did meet, though the occasions were 
rare. The keen eye of the aunt saw the impropriety 
of their meeting alone, and she always was in the way 
at such meetings. The restraint thus placed upon them 
was a continued invitation to break through it ; and 
the catastrophe feared and guarded against transpired 
through the excess of vigilance used for its prevention. 
The boy and girl — now older, as two years had elapsed 
since they had first met, and he had grown in manly 
grace, and she in womanly development — had actually 
fallen over ears in love. They had stolen many a march 
on the old aunt, by letter, and by such blissful snatches 



A life's fortunes. 339 

of time as chance had favored them withal; and they 
had found many. A low balcony that ran by her cham- 
ber window admitted of many a meeting in the summer 
nights, for your lover has ever been as spry as a cat. All 
noticed the change in the fair Julia's manner, for she had 
wonderfully improved. From the dull and moping girl, 
she became lively and vivacious, and even " Old Pro- 
priety," as James Trevor profanely termed the aunt, ad- 
mitted that she had never known so wonderful a change. 

Alas ! that ] must dash this beautiful scene to pieces, 
and strew salt upon its ground, so that nothing shall 
grow there more ! But I am truthful in my narration, 
and a reputation achieved by a long life of veracity 
must not be endangered by any wrong statement. A 
letter — 0, that lovers should ever know how to write ! 
0, that they knew enough to avoid ink ! 0, that they 
would write their tender missives in paregoric or 
water ! — directed to " Julia Edes," appointing a meet- 
ing on the balcony, fell into the hands of the aunt, 
instead of the daughter. The night was dark, and the 
youth, full of love and impatience, climbed upon the 
balcony, where Julia awaited him. It was the wrong 
Julia, though, and, as he clasped her in his arms, un- 
aware of the difference, in his impetuosity, and im- 
printed a dozen kisses upon her lips, she brought him 
a box upon his ear that almost knocked him down, say- 
ing, at the same time, 

'^ There, you sauce-box, take that !" 

He had already taken it, and her remark seemed 
superfluous, considering that fact. He mumbled out 
some apology, and at that instant the window opened, 
and Mr. Edes stepped out, having been attracted by his 
sister's sharp voice. 

" What 's the matter?" was his question. " Thieves ?'' 



340 A LIFE'S FORTUNES. 

"The matter ! " said she, tartly. '• 0, nothing, nothing ! 
This youngster has presumed to make an appointment 
to meet Julia here on the balcony, that's all; and, as I 
chose to take her place, I came very nigh being smoth- 
ered with kisses." 

" Young man," said Mr. Edes, drawing himself up 
from five feet eight to five feet eight and a half, " have 
you presumed to take such liberties with my child and 
sister?" 

" I have, sir," said James, boldly ; " and all that I 
regret about it is that I made this mistake. I certainly 
never should have taken such liberties with your sister, 
had I seen who it was." 

^' And have you no regrets to express at your men- 
dacious — mendacious — impropriety in presuming to 
make an appointment with my daughter, sir?" said the 
old man, sternly. 

" No, sir," he replied, frankly ; " I could not help 
loving her, as she loves me. We have told each other 
so, whenever we could ; and I have hoped that some 
day, when I was a man, she would be my wife, with 
your consent." 

"How improper!" said Miss Edes, holding up both 
her hands. 

"Well, young man," continued Mr. Edes, "you can 
be no longer a resident of my house ; this presumption 
divides us. I have a higher aim for my daughter, and 
with the morning you will depart for your home." 

James clambered down from the balcony as heavily 
as though two fifty-sixes had been thrust into his coat- 
pockets ; but it was really because his heart was so 
heavy. He crawled away to his chamber, mortified and 
chagrined, and then sat down and wrote Julia a letter, 
vowing constancy, and swearing, in the approved style, 



A life's fortunes. 341 

that he would come back and marry her, when he had 
won fortune, which he was sure to do. He sealed his 
letter, and, stealing out, placed it beneath her door ; 
then, putting a few things together, he stepped lightly 
down the stairs, and passed out of the house forever. 
His path led by the store, the key of which he had in his 
pocket. Recollecting some trifle that he wished to take 
with him, he opened the door and went in. The old 
store-dog growled fiercely as he entered, but, perceiv- 
ing who it was, he licked the hand held out to him, and 
took his place upon the mat, where he had been sleep- 
lug, satisfied that all was right. 

A wicked spirit was near James Trevor as he stood 
there, and whispered in his ear many tempting and 
insidious words. '' There is money in the safe, as you 
know," it said, " which you must have, in order to get 
away. You have earned it," the voice continued ; " you 
have not been half paid : take it. Revenge is sweet, 
James Trevor, and you cannot touch the old hunks so 
keenly as through his pocket." Alas, for poor human 
weakness and dull conscientiousness ! the tempter won ; 
and, though a good spirit whispered '' Julia," the rus- 
tling of the bank-notes he was handling drowned the 
sound, and, pocketing a considerable sum of the money, 
he passed out into the world, appeasing the little con- 
science that troubled him with the assurance that he 
would pay the amount, with interest, when he came back 
rich. He threw the key of the store into a pond, and 
struck across the fields in an opposite direction from 
his home, to where a stage-road led to the seaboard. 
He thought that they would not miss the money for 
several days, and then, as he had left no traces of his 
being in the store, that they would have no proof that 
he had stolen it ; and he reckoned rightly. 

29* 



342 A life's fortunes. 

The amount taken was part of a large sum reserved 
to pay for an invoice of goods expected to arrive by 
the slow wagons that plied between Campton and the 
seaboard, and it was not missed until the package was 
removed from the safe for conveyance, by the stage- 
driver, to its destination. Confusion instantly prevailed, 
when the loss was discovered. Mr. Edes raved in a 
manner very severe, accusing everybody of a dispo- 
sition to swindle him; when some one, in order to vindi- 
cate himself from so general a charge, asked if James 
Trevor might not have taken it, as he had so very mys- 
teriously disappeared from the store, which disappear- 
ance he and the other associate had vainly tried to 
account for. The suggestion was made to Mr. Merrow, 
who gladly received it, as he had latterly taken a repug- 
nance to the young man, on account of the interest 
manifested in him by Julia, which his jealous instincts 
'lad perceived, whose good graces he wished to secure 
to himself He immediately mentioned the suggestion 
to Mr. Edes, who, admitting its reasonableness, became 
more frantic, and at once sent a messenger to Sweet- 
fern to bring the fugitive back, as he conceived he had 
taken that direction. 

Great was the astonishment of old Mr. Trevor at the 
tale the messenger told him of the disappearance of his 
son, and his imputed dishonesty. It was a severe blow 
to him, as his hope of his son's greatness had grown 
with time. Now dishonor and shame were about to 
descend upon a name that had long been respectable. 
He went back to Campton with the messenger, and was 
informed by Mr. Edes, in private, of the boy's presump- 
tion, — he would not for many dollars have the fact 
public, — and of the probability of his dishonesty. 
There was, it is true, no positive ^roof that he had 



A life's fortunes. 343 

committed the crime, but he would advertise him through 
the country, and have him brought back for triah The 
father saw all this through his fears, and compromised 
the matter by supplying the missing amount. He sor- 
rowfully returned, with the reluctantly-admitted belief 
that his son, for whom he had indulged such hope, was 
a villain. He was a wanderer, he knew not where, and 
there was no possibility of communicating with him, in 
order to make an effort to save him, if he had not fallen 
irremediably. 

The letter that her departed lover had written 
to Julia had not reached its destination, and the 
poor girl knew not what had befallen him. His ab- 
sence alarmed her, and, in reply to the timid question 
she asked her aunt regarding him, she was told that he 
had stolen money from her father and run away. What 
a blow was this for young love ! But her faith in her 
lover's honesty was strong, even though appearances 
might be' against him. Yet why should he have gone, 
at all ? and why should he not have told her that he 
was going ? The questions were very perplexing, and 
the attempt to solve them wrought a fever of anxiety 
in her mind, that brought with it the illness of body 
that follows despair. It was long before she recov- 
ered, and when restored to health her step had lost its 
elasticity, and her eye the joyous fire that had charac- 
terized it when reflecting the sunlight of requited love. 
(I have submitted the close of the preceding sentence to 
the criticism of those who have for twenty years been 
accustomed to read love-stories, and they say that the 
'' sunlight of requited love " is good. Poor Julia !) 

We left James Trevor on the road, waiting for the 
stage-coach, with determination in his heart, and stolen 
money in his pocket. Tender thoughts of Juha flitted 



344 A life's fortunes. 

through his mind, amid the whirl of conflicting emotions, 
hke the gleam of an angel's wing in the dun and smoke 
of battle. For a moment he would feel like % scoundrel ; 
and then the tempter, who had never left him, would 
whisper " Chicken-hearted milksop " in his ear, and sug- 
gest that it was " only a loan.'' About the time the 
stage came along, he felt quieted, and mounted to the 
top with something like cheerfulness in his manner. It 
was a delightful morning in summer; the birds sang 
from every bush, and universal nature seemed glow- 
ingly alive with melody and bloom. A grateful cool- 
ness filled the air, which flung incense abroad from 
myriad censers, and the human soul, rightly attuned, 
arose with the spirit of the morning in responsive praise. 

There was on the outside of the stage, with James 
Trevor, a rough and poor-looking man, whose cheerful 
and pleasant face denoted a happy heart within. He 
seemed fully alive to the beauty of the scene, and his 
lips were constantly expressing the joy that filled him. 

" How good men should strive to be," he said, '' in 
view of the blessings the good Father sends ! " He looked 
at James, as he spoke, who, with a half-consciousness 
that he could read his secret, faltered out a timid 
"Yes." 

" But, for all this blessing," the rough man continued, 
" which should bring us to our knees, we return nothing 
but wrong-doing and baseness." 

James tried to look attentive and interested, while he 
felt his heart beating very fast, and his conscience 
sorely troubled. 

" Man is the only thing in the universe," the rough 
man went on, " that is false to God. The flowers bloom, 
the winds blow, the stars shine, the glorious sun warms 



A life's fortunes. 345 

and invigorates, and all are ' good,' as when pronounced 
thus in Eden ; but man strange perversity ! " 

The poor runaway could not resist the feeling that 
had been coming upon him, and here bowed his head 
with the deepest contrition. His companion observed 
it, and, thinking James some boy grieved at leaving 
home, strove to comfort him, by telling him that with 
honesty and probity he might secure wealth and fame, 
and return again to honor those from whom he had 
sprung. But the counsel only added fuel to the fire. 
That was a miserable day for him on the top of the 
coach, and he was very glad when he arrived at his des- 
tination, and pleased to be rid of one who, it seemed, 
had either been especially sent to torment him, or as an 
angel to warn him against future danger. He accepted 
the latter signification, and, sitting down, wrote his 
father the whole story of his love, and his indiscre- 
tion, and his dishonesty, with the tale of his strange 
conversion, returning the money, and begging forgive- 
ness, stating his determination to leave the country, and 
never come back until he had made fortune enough to 
claim his bride, and give her the position she was fitted 
to grace. From this time he became a wanderer in 
search of fortune. 

There is a description of special Providence in the 
affairs of men, termed Good-luck; and those favored with 
it have but to will, and the slaves of good-luck, and all 
the other slaves, instantly obey, as readily as did the 
slaves of the lamp in the hands of Aladdin. Their touch 
seems, Midas-like, to turn everything to gold. They 
speak, and their words coin into guineas, or take the 
form of bank-notes. They step, and whole territories 
of real estate, never known before, spring into being. 
They wave their hands, and mighty factories stand 



346 A life's foetunes. 

beside the subservient streams. The converse lias 
too many disagreeable associations of a personal char- 
acter to induce me to dwell upon it. James Trevor 
was lucky. He had changed his name, and had found 
his way to Hayti, where, in a few years, he acquired a 
sufficient amount to justify his return to claim his bride, 
from whom he had not heard since he left his country. 
It was at the time when the fever of the revolution had 
spread to the outer limit of the French jurisdiction, and 
Hayti was in a great state of fermentation. The antag- 
onism of the blacks and whites was every day growing 
more and more bitter. The whites, from an over- 
weening sense of their own superiority, did not deign 
to conciliate, and James Trevor, who had become a 
prominent man, less than any ; for one who has only 
the idea of achieving gain in his heart has small room 
for humane considerations. The storm so long gather- 
ing at last burst, and, just upon the eve of Trevor's 
embarking for home, and when he had adjusted every- 
thing for his departure, those violent scenes began, 
which ended in the establishment of the Haytien republic, 
and the subjugation of the whites. Every dollar of his 
money was swept away, and, barely escaping with his 
life, by the aid of a faithful slave, he was again cast 
upon the world. 

The sweet Julia of his boyish dreams still held place 
in his affections ,* but he had taught himself to see her 
only through a worldly mist of money and establish- 
ment, and doubt of womanly constancy, that had grown 
up within him in an atmosphere of intrigue and licen 
tiousness, caused him at times to entertain the possi- 
bility that she had forgotten him; and these feelings, in 
his hour of ruin, came upon him with a force to dispel 
the half-formed resolution to return, while pride, that 



A life's fortunes. 347 

unsafe counsellor^ recalled the promise he had made not 
to return until he was rich. " I will keep my promise," 
he said to himself, and he did. There was no chance 
of hearing from his native place, it being remote from 
the seaboard, and, though he had at several times sent 
letters to Julia and his father, by transient ships, to be 
dropped into remote post-offices, those letters were 
never received by those to whom they were sent. 

Ten years more had passed over his head, and once 
more fortune had smiled upon him. He had located 
himself in Marseilles, and — 0, treachery to love ! — he 
was about to marry. The gentle Julia, though not all 
forgotten, had become the memory of a vision, seen in 
the air some bright morning, that the sudden cloud had 
obscured, or of an angel that appeared in some distant 
reverie, impalpable and unsubstantial. The fascinating 
glitter of a fashionable woman had captivated his senses 
rather than won his heart, and he was about to marry 
her — as thousands marry, most happy reader, who bind 
that knot with their tongue that their teeth cannot un- 
tie, to hold them in irredeemable wretchedness, as must 
be the case where love sheds not its benediction — see- 
ing nothing beyond present aggrandizement or conve- 
nience. He married, and the white image of Julia 
floated out of his mind, as the angel of Peace flees the 
scene where the demon of Discord asserts his claim for 
supremacy. And thus we leave him, selflsh, false, un- 
grateful — to find his reward, perhaps ! 

The gentle Julia, in all these years, had proved true to 

her first love, treasuring his memory with commendable 

persistency, which must have been very refreshing to 

witness. We know nothing like it in these latter sea- 

I sons, when constancy to a first lover depends oftener 

I upon the accident of never knowing a second one than 



348 A life's fortunes. 

upon a principle. The venerable aunt had died and 
been buried according to the gravest and most approved 
propriety, and mourned up to the expected shade. On 
her death-bed she confessed to Julia the great wrong 
she had done her, and produced the very letter James 
Trevor had written the night of his departure, which 
she had adroitly purloined, having suspected, from a 
shrewd knowledge of human nature, that he would write 
such a letter, and seen him from her own door deposit 
it beneath her niece's. That letter breathed the most 
ardent promises of constancy, and vows that he would 
return to marry her in spite of " Old Propriety," and 
begging her to be true to him. The same old story ! 

She had been besieged by Merrow as soon as his rival 
was out of the way, but was obdurate to all his entrea- 
ties, and had uniformly refused to listen to the addresses 
of any. Time found her an heiress of her father's prop- 
erty, the old gentleman having paid the debt of nature 
without a discount, which was considered a strange 
departure from his usual mode of operations. The 
business passed into the hands of Mr. Merrow, who had 
married, and who became purchaser of the Edes man- 
sion, the daughter desiring to remove from a scene to 
her so full of painful recollections. This she did, and, 
with the strange and unaccountable caprice of woman's 
character, chose to locate in the very city from which 
her lover had taken his departure in quest of fortune. 
She bought a residence there, and, with a single female 
companion, spent her time in benevolent actions. 

It is not a very pleasant part of a writer's duty to 
kill off all the characters of his story before the denoue- 
ment, though that plan is adopted sometimes by fiction- 
ists when they wish to get troublesome people out of 
the way. This veracious story, however, is that _ of a 



A life's fortunes. 349 

life, with a lapse of time that operates with subtle and 
certain force upon human years, as most people know ; 
therefore they, at least, will not be surprised when we 
gather old Jacob Trevor to his fathers, or mention that 
he died at a good old age, the farm having been sold to 
a cotton manufacturing company, and the money there- 
for distributed among the heirs-at-law. 

Few were living that could have recognized, in the 
rich Mr. Merton, merchant, of Marseilles, the humble 
boy, James Trevor, who had left the American hills 
forty years before. He scarcely knew himself, and 
scarcely wished to, for life to him had become identified 
with foreign scenes and foreign circumstances, and the 
money was all there for which he had sold himself. He 
had, through correspondents in New York, learned of 
his father's death, and he had also, by the same means, 
learned of the departure of the Edes family from Camp- 
ton. His domestic life had been a stormy one. He 
had no children, his wife was wildly extravagant, and 
addicted to the prominent vices incident to some phases 
of fashionable life, — gambling and wine-drinking, — 
and the wealth that had come to him, under the domina- 
tion of good-luck, was in constant danger of being swept 
from him by her excesses. Did he not have his reward ? 
At length, in a time of panic, the crash came, and, ruined 
in health, commercial credit, and personal reputation, 
James Trevor found himself a bankrupt. His wife left 
him, and his wreck was complete. 

But he was richer in ruin than when in his highest 
state of opulence. It led him to think, and with thought 
came repentance, and with repentance resolution. And, 
as his feelings softened in the atmosphere of trial, the 
good spirit came into his heart again, and, though years 
of time and a further distance of estrangement had 

30 



350 A life's fortunes. 

separated them, he thought of Julia Edes, and wept — 
that ruined old man — like a child. He never was so 
rich in his life as at that moment. His soul was coining 
ingots of golden treasure, and laying it up in a heaven 
of returning tenderness. To talk of earthly riches, in 
comparison to this ! 

The ship-fever was raging among emigrants arrived 
at the city where the " good Miss Edes," as the poor 
called her, resided, and early and late was she busy in 
ministering to the wants of the sick and dying. The 
hospitals were full, and nurses were hard to be procured; 
so she herself went from ward to ward, alleviating, as 
far as possible, the pain of the sufferers. Blessings fol- 
lowed her wherever she went. One morning she was 
told that a poor old man had been brought in during 
the night, and there was no place for him. Every bed 
was full, and room could not be found for more. 

^' Send him to my house," said she; "he must not 
suffer for this care;" and he was accordingly sent there 
on a litter. 

As soon as she had gone the round of her duty, she 
returned to her home, and there, upon a comfortable 
bed, she found the stranger. The fever had taken a 
fearful hold upon his feeble system, and upon its 
paroxysms delirium attended. She merely glanced at 
him as he lay in his unconsciousness, his features dis- 
figured by the disease, and gave directions to the phy- 
sician who had accompanied her home to bestow on 
him all needed attentions, and to procure a nurse for 
him, whose duty she would for the present perform. He 
went away, and left her alone with the sick man. The 
sufferer muttered incoherently, as he lay with his eyes 
shut. At length every faculty in her was absorbed by 
a word he uttered. She did not breathe, but leaned 



A life's fortunes. 35 1 

over him, with all her senses acutely alive, to catch a 
repetition of the sound. 

" Julia ! " he murmured, " dearest Julia, why will you 
not come to me ?" 

She looked in the face so fearful with distemper, and 
around the lips she saw the same smile that had beamed 
upon her in the long years ago, never once forgotten ; 
and, kneeling down hj the bedside, she bowed her head 
upon her hands, while the tears — tears of pity and 
love — flowed copiously, and cried aloud, from the ful- 
ness of her heart, " Thank God ! thank God ! " The 
doctor, on his return, found her thus. She had swooned 
from excitement and exhaustion. 

The life of the stranger was spared, and through the 
long watches of his illness she never left his bedside. 
Slowly he recovered, and his first inquiry was as to the 
place where he found himself. He was told that he 
was in the house of a friend, who would see that all his 
wants were answered. 

" Thanks — many thanks," he said ; ^' but I can make 
no return for your kindness. I am a poor, ruined man, 
and, though I recently could command everything, I am 
now dependent upon charity for my very life.'' 

He lay still, but his proud spirit seemed to struggle 
with the ignominy of dependence, and with a deep sigh 
he fell asleep, — into one of those half-conscious sleeps 
wherein the soul involuntarily reveals itself, and during 
which she often heard her name taken upon the dream- 
er's lips. But now a fearful storm was raging in his 
mind, in which she heard more than she should have 
heard of reenacted strife, of recrimination and retort, 
and bitter taunt, and severe invective, and through it she 
knew that James Trevor had proved false to his early 
vows. But there came no anger with the thought. 



352 A life's fortunes. 

Her love for him was too pure for that ; it sought his 
good and happiness alone, irrespective of conditions. 
As she listened to him, the storm in his mind subsided, 
and, in the sweet tones of the olden time, again came 
the beloved name — 

'^ Julia ! " 

She bent over him, and, taking his thin hand in hers, 
looked down into his eyes as he awoke, and breathed 
the name he had not for years heard — 

" James Trevor ! " 

The tenderness and singularity of this scene surpass 
all my powers of description. I could, having been 
young myself, describe a meeting of young people 
under such circumstances ; but these were venerable 
lovers, and it is not to be supposed that the rhapsody 
of youth could have any part in the meeting. There 
were doubtless a few kisses exchanged under the first im- 
pulse, and then came the explanation of mutual fortunes, 
tender reminiscences, and future prospects, which were 
not very bright conjugally, provided they had been still 
young, with an ugly French wife in the way. But the 
heyday of their blood had grown tame, and a mellowed 
and subdued affection had taken the place of that fiercer 
passion which marked their early years. It was no 
longer passion, and in the calmness of its sacred glow 
they both found a healthy happiness. They lived in the 
same house together for many years, agreeably to a 
propriety that would have delighted Julia's aunt ; but 
his arm was her support, and her affectionate counsel 
his encouragement in his new effort to be a better man. 
And thus the Fortunes of a Life turned out. 



MOUNT WASHINGTON. 353 

MOUNT WASHINGTON. 

WRITTEN AT THE GLEN HOUSE. 

The Queen of Sheba said of Israel's glory. 

When Solomon his wisdom did unfold her. 
That far inadequate was every story, 

And not one half the truth had e'er been told her. 

And here. Mount Washington above me rising, 

I feel myself in that same situation, 
For not a tithe of all its wealth surprising 

Hath pen or tongue made fitting revelation. 

0, beautiful and grand the gross amount 

Of mountain scene, from which there 's no discounting ; 
Where Nature figures in a wild account, — 

Like compound interest, evermore a "mounting." 

I watch the flitting shadows yonder dancing 
Like sportive elves among the granite boulders ; 

Anon I see the cheerfiil sunshLue glancing 
Like epaulets on Washington's broad shoulders. 

Around the awful peak now vapors gather. 

And darkly-lowering clouds the valleys threaten ; 

There 's no postponement on account of weather. 
Or compromising to defer the wettin'. 

The lavish rain outpours, — I hear it rushing 

Far o'er the forest, on its work baptismal ; 
A holy wet from primal fountains gushing. 

That gives the heart no contemplation dismal. 

'Tis past, — the birds, their cheerful song renewing. 
Pour forth their lays in grateful adoration ; 

The rivulet, its pleasant way pursuing, 
Joins its glad note in musical oblation. 

The self-same song comes from yon sylvan bowers, 
In notes as wild, as sweet, and as sonorous. 

As when, in Nature's first awakening hours. 
The glad creation sang Time's opening chorus. 
30* 



854 ALBUMINOUS. 

How green and bright tlie garniture appears 
Which Nature throws about those kingly bases ! 

Its fashion changeless in the lapse of years, — 
Perfection found in its primeval graces. 

But here to stand and view it I 'm contented, — 
Though others soar, it is not my ambition ; 

I am not sad that I have been prevented. 
For those who 've soared are sorer in condition. 



ALBUMINOUS 



Apropos of Albums. Some regard them as bores, 
and even use a harsher term in speaking of them, and 
shudder when one is placed in their hands, as some sen- 
sitive people do when asked to hold a baby. The voice 
asking the favor of a line in an album sounds harsh and 
unpleasant in the ears of such, though flute-like in its 
intonation, and the request to climb a greased pole, or 
turn a back somerset in the street, seems easy in com- 
parison. My boarding-house experience embraced an 
endless round of albums, — the boarding-house num- 
bering three or four young women among its occu- 
pants, forming a sort of intellectual exchange of such, 
— and it was the practice of the fair owners to make a 
direct assault upon all new-comers, as soon as the cere- 
mony of introduction had been gone through with, so 
that the albuminous was largely predominant in our 
circle, and, like mucilage, made us stick together. 
Those albums exhibited very fine displays of rhetoric, 
representing every phase of intellectual calibre, ranging, 
as may be imagined, through the whole field of profes- 
sion, with very doubtful evidences of sincerity in any 
of them. Juliana ! 0, how well is she remembered, 
even at the distance of ever-so-many years, with her 



ALBUMINOUS. 355 

flaxen hair in papers, and her blue eyes beaming upon 
the boy who gazed upon them with a feeling of admira- 
tion, that it took a long time to prove the folly of! 
Juliana's album was the most favored. Her album was 
made the altar of as many beautiful fancies as there 
were leaves contained in it. Herein glowed the 
thoughts that breathed and the words that burned with 
different degrees of intensity. Here a page of pink 
gleamed with couleur de rose imaginings, and there the 
yellow bore the bilious lucubrations of diseased fancy ; 
here the green betrayed the verdancy of young heart- 
burn, and there the blue glistened with fervent words 
like the firmament with its wealth of stars. Above and 
through and in all, the sugar of flattery prevailed, to 
catch the credulous fly, Yanity ; and succeeded but too 
well, as was apparent in the fact that one page, which 
contained the only honest sentiment that had ever been 
written in it, was torn out, on the pretence that it was 
so stupid 1 There were many vows and many protesta- 
tions, and much honey about the leaves ; but, before we 
divided, the falsity of half the two former had been seen, 
and an infusion of gall in the latter that rendered its 
sweet slightly acrid. The boarders married off, or 
changed their boarding-places, and hatred, or, what is 
worse, indifference, took the place of the intense senti- 
ment that lied still upon the centre-table. Poor Juli- 
ana ! She will pardon this allusion to herself, if she can 
stop from her manifold duties long enough to read it ; 
for she is now a woman of many cares, and the flaxen 
curls, no more in papers, have a tinge of gray pervad- 
ing them ; but her album was a model. I recollect a 
tall, sentimental young man who wrote in it, — who 
wore his collar turned over, and encouraged a slight 
beard on his chin, who eschewed meat, and chewed 



856 ALBUMINOUS. 

Graham bread and raisins, to induce right conditions fot 
intellectual emanations. His muse was prolific, and we 
remember well the pride Juliana displayed when she 
pointed out the following : 

"TO JULIANA. 

''The harp once struck to that dear theme. 
My Juliana's prays. 
Should never sound again, I deem. 
With no ignoble lays. 

" My harp, a loan, her prays shall sing ; 
No other theme shall clame 
To hold dominion o'er a string 
Yet thrilling with her name. 

" The wild discordancy of life 

Around may roar and rave, — 
Her name I '11 sound amid the strife. 
And still the trubled wave. 

" And though we part to meat no more. 
And such stern fate must be, 
I still shall look towards the shear 
Where first her smiles I see." 

The inspiration was apparent in the bad spelling, and 
the sincerity in the fact that he ran away without pay- 
ing his board, leaving the " shoar" and Juliana^s smiles 
behind him. A few pages further, another muse blazed 
with the following : 

"TO MISS JULIANA. 

" When upon these lines you gaze. 
Think of him who 's gone his ways ; 
Think of him that once you knew. 
Who will evermore prove true ; 
Think of him who on life's sea 
You may never again more see ; 



PARTED TIES. 357 

Think of him who with a sigh 

Bid you and your mother and all good-by. 

Then in the depths of his misery 

He took his trunk and went and shipped to go to sea." 

These two specimens are sufficient. Juliana still 
keeps the book, and marks are discoverable in it of tear- 
drops, or of greasy fingers, and it is an object of great 
interest with her grown-up daughter. But albums are 
really desirable things, discreetly used. They embalm 
the friendship of to-day, and may be made the mediums 
of pleasant and affectionate thought. Dedicated to 
high-toned sentiment and sincerity, they become invalu- 
able for reference in after time, when the heart is sad 
with stings and slights the world inflicts. Unworthy 
names may mar their pages, but they may be easily ex- 
punged, or retained as mementoes of the fact that we 
are all weak creatures, and liable to fall. 



PARTED TIES. 



The hand still warm with the imparted touch 

Of friendly farewell, and the ears still hearing 
The sounds of kindness that we 've prized much. 

That long our varied pathway have been cheering. 
We scarce can deem that touch has been the last. 

Or that the words which friendship's tongue has spoken 
Will be but tender memories of the past — 

Strains of a lute whose strings are rudely broken. 

'T is hard to feel that smiles we know to-day. 

Blessing our pathway with their radiance cheering, 
May ere the sunset fade in gloom away. 

In death's dark shade forever disappearing ; 
That the warm heart which, throbbing with our own, 

Has felt with us, e'en now, each joy and sorrow. 
May cease its sweet and sympathetic tone, 

And leave us sad and lonely on the morrow. 



358 UNCONDITIONAL CHEERFULNESS. 

But such is fate, and the entwining ties 

By which the lives of men are here united 
May break like threads of wax before our eyes. 

And all our fondest schemes of love be blighted ! 
Vicissitudes o'er every moment lower, 

And life's full cup, with pleasure's cordial brimming, 
May be o'erturned by some mysterious power. 

Or its fair surface with hot tears be dimminar. 

But for a day — and fairer scenes await 

The passage of the loved across the river. 
And what we know as Death is but the gate 

To scenes beyond of joy and peace forever. 
And we take heart in faith sublime as this. 

And see a loving hand to us extended. 
To help us on the road that leads to bliss 

When earth's dull pilgrimage with us is ended. 

We joy to think that friends thus gone before 

May still be mingling their fond hearts with ours ; 
That love enkindled on time's shifting shore 

May live anew with more exalted powers ; 
That by our side they now as then may stand. 

And smile upon us with benigner feeling, 
Shedding the influence of the better land. 

And newer promise of its state revealing. 



UNCONDITIONAL CHEERFULNESS. 

The snow upon a morn was falling fast. 

Borne on the cold and driving wind along. 
When, mid the whirl of snow-flakes and the blast. 

Rose the sweet cadence of a robin's song. 
Upon a leafless bough he sat, and trilled 

His matin-hymn in tone as glad and high 
As if the air with blossomy breath were filled. 

And golden sunshine sparkled in the sky. 
I thought how like was this to that true soul 

Which upward soars and sings mid earthly strife. 
That yields no moment to adverse control. 

But makes the best of good and bad in life ; 
That feels as jolly with a scolding wife 
As when the day with fortune's gifts is rife. 



EMBLEMATIC. 359 

MRS. PARTINGTON GROWS DESULTORY. 

" There 's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip/' 
said Mrs. Partington, with a philosophical upraising of 
the index-finger, putting her specs up on her head, "and 
it's no use to be particular about the portion which Prov- 
idence sends us ; for, however much we may say we 'd 
rather have this and we 'd rather have that, we can't 
any of us have the druthers that we want. It has been 
said that doubtful things is very uncertain, and that we 
can't tell who 's to be mayor till after election ; and that 
reminds me to say that them that buys the most of cheap 
goods has to pay the most for 'em, and heaven knows 
when the costiveness of the times will be any better." 
She ran down here, like an eight-day clock, and those 
who heard her wondered at the wisdom of her remarks, 
which, though they could n't make out what it all meant, 
glistened in the light of affectionate partiality, like a 
piece of glass beneath the rays of the moon. 



EMBLEMATIC. 



While in my -wanderiiigs, lately, I descried. 

Close by an ancient hut dilapidated, 
^An apple-tree in guise of blooming pride. 

Scarcely in prouder precincts to be mated. 
Its graceful branches o'er the old hut threw 

An air of bloom that seemed rejuvenating ; 
I quite forgot the hovel was not new. 

Among the odors that were round it waiting. 
And here methought an emblem I had found 

Of age with brightest virtues round it resting ; 
Though life's dark night steals on to fold it round. 

The bloom of cheerfulness is still investing 
The crazy fabric, bowed by Time's rude storms. 
And waves above it in divinest fi rras. 



A NIGHT OE IT. 

"We were out in the country — Jar vis and I — on a 
little bit of a " tower," as the landlord of Hardscrabble 
^' guessed," as we stopped there for the night. Hard- 
scrabble is a queer little place, away up in New Hamp- 
shire. It is so far away from railroads and the bigger 
sort of civihzation, that the wonder is, among those who 
forget that it was built up before the railroads, how it 
came there. But it is on what was once the great stage- 
road to the shire town, and in old times the '^tavern" — 
there were taverns in those days — was a bustling place, 
and abounded with stable-boys and loafers, and men 
more respectable, who dropped in, upon the arrival of 
the stages, to get the' last news from Boston, then some 
days old, but still new. Then the great pine-knot-lighted 
bar-room was hung all around with stage-drivers' great 
coats, with more capes than a continent, and formidable 
whips, with lashes long enough to tickle the ears of the 
lagging leaders of the team. The walls, top, were all 
hung with advertisements of horses, and ^''vendues," and 
cattle-fairs, and up by the ceiling hung rows of " Canada 
crooknecks " to " keep " in the mild atmosphere. The 
bar meant something then,' and the decanters, with 
lemons dotted in between, filled with Santa Cruz, and 
Jamaica, and Old Medford, and other fluids, furnished 
the essential oil that lubricated the tongues of travel- 
lers to a degree that rendered the cold nights of winter 
perfectly jolly with social hilarity, and made the name 

(800) 



A NIGHT OP IT. 361 

of stranger an entire misnomer. Then, broad-shouldered 
and thick-booted men sat before the big fireplace, their 
ruddy faces glowing in the light, and their tongues jubi- 
lant with joke or song, or grave with the weightier mat- 
ters of court-business or of umpireship, and wise with 
speculations about crops, or the weight of pork or cat- 
tle. Anon some new one came in from the cold with a 
remark that it was " master cold out," when the current 
of conversation changed a little for reminiscences of 
some " cold Friday," away back years before, when the 
oldest inhabitant froze his ears as he went a-courting. 
All this while the logs in the big fireplace sent a cheer- 
ful blaze up the chimney, and the handles of one or two 
iron loggerheads were seen projecting from the flame, 
denoting that flip could be had for the asking, — a fluid 
which men of the ancient regime indulged in, — and the 
landlord, up to the full standard of the host in good 
nature and inches, leaned over his bar-room door, be- 
nevolently contemplating the scene, ready to answer 
summonses, then legal, for the commodities within his 
bar, to welcome new comers, or to book the names of 
passengers by the morning stage. Then, there was the 
" sitting-room," as it was called, with its sanded floor, 
where the lady-guests in unsocial frigidity awaited the 
return of their male companions, who had a long story 
to tell, on their return, about the difficulty there Avas 
in " these country taverns '' about getting things com- 
fortable. 

Such w^as the old Hardscrabble tavern, as I remember 
it, with its queer picture of a face, surrounded by rays 
of best chrome-yellow, called the Sun, which swung in 
chains out in front of the house, and creaked in dismal 
discontent in the wintry wind ; and such was not the old 
Sun tavern, as I saw it on my return to it, last winter. 



362 A NIGHT OF IT. 

after an absence of twenty-five years. Long before, its 
glory had departed, and so bad the former landlord. 

We were out at the close of one of the very coldest 
of cold days, going towards Hardscrabble, in an open 
sleigh. It had never seemed in such an impracticable 
place before. The scene, as we approached the town, 
with which I had formerly been very familiar, was now 
all new to me ; for the bushes that I had left had 
grown up to be trees, and a small brook, that had for- 
merly crossed the road, had been dammed in an effort 
to save the place by building a little one-horse saw-mill, 
which made a lake that we crossed on the ice. All 
seemed odd enough ', and Jarvis, as far as he ventured 
to speak, said that he fully appreciated, now, the remark 
of the old lady who wondered how any one could live 
so far off. It was too cold to question the relevancy 
of the remark. 

Says I, Jarvis, miboy, there 's comfort awaiting us. I 
do remember me a country tavern, and hereabouts it 
was; and, if we don't find there roaring cheer, and good 
entertainment for man and beast, — that is, you and I, — 
set me down as an arrant cheat and deceiver. He settled 
back into his rigidity with some remark, the only part of 
which that I could distinguish was, " suthin hot ! " It 
was only about ten o'clock ; but, early as it was, every 
sign of life had ceased about the place. Not a soul was 
stirring, not a light beamed from a window, and the 
dead solitude of the north-pole could be scarcely more 
drear than the utter deadness that just then rested 
upon Hardscrabble. , We drove on towards the " tav- 
ern," whose windows, illuminated with the old watch- 
fire, seemed to the traveller a veritable smile of wel- 
come, and a promise of good cheer ; but no such 
welcome met us — "darkness there, and nothing more!" 



A NIGHT OP IT. 363 

I could not be mistaken in the house ; for there was the 
old sign-post, with the crane projecting, that had once 
sustained the Sun, now set forever. 

I knew that Jarvis was alive, because I had heard him 
a few moments before uncork a little flask that he car- 
ried, containing some aromatic drops, but I did not 
know how long he would hold out; so, emergency war- 
ranting, I got out of the sleigh, went to the door, and 
gave a volley of raps with the handle of my whip, such 
as a man might be supposed to make who was in a 
severe strait, but who had wherewithal to back his 
demand. No response to the sound came, when I 
repeated the summons, and this time with better suc- 
cess ; for a window over the door opened, a head looked 
cautiously out, and a voice, tremulous with fear or cold, 
demanded, 

'' What the plague 's the matter? — what d'ye want?" 

" Want to come in,'' said I. " Here are two travel- 
lers, hungry and cold, — one of them now in an insensi- 
ble condition in the sleigh, yonder, — and we want you 
to open your doors to them, and take them in, as you, 
undoubtedly, are disposed to do." 

" 0, shet up ! " said the voice, which I supposed was 
addressed to me ; but, from its subdued tone, I after- 
wards concluded that it was intended as a reply to some 
one in the house, which proved to be the fact, as I 
heard a female voice, in a moment, say, 

" S'pos'in' 't should be thieves ? " 

" Say ! " said the voice from the window, " who are 
ye, any way?" 

" Two belated travellers," I replied, " from Boston, 
the metropolis of Massachusetts, who have business in 
the town of Hardscrabble, where they will remain to- 



364 A NIGHT OF IT. 

morrow, and are desirous of resting and refreshing 
themselves beneath your roof 

" Wal, I '11 be down in a minnit. Thunderin' cold, 
is n't it ? " 

He disappeared from the window, and, from the 
sounds that I heard, I judged there had arisen an 
disagreeable domestic discussion concerning the pro- 
priety of letting us in, which created a little unpleasant 
reflection as to what could be done in such a contin- 
gency as being shut out, relieved, however, by the clat- 
tering of feet upon the floor inside, the withdrawal of a 
bolt, and the swinging of the door upon its hinges, 
disclosing a tall, cadaverous-looking man, half-dressed, 
holding a tallow candle in his hand, and a woman, as 
thick as she was short, at his elbow. Says I, " Friends, 
I am very sorry to disturb you ; but we are in distress. 
It is thunderin' cold, as you 'very truly remarked, just 
now, and I have a friend there under that pile of 
buffalo-robes who may even now be frozen as stiff as 
Mount Washington." 

The buffalo-robes, however, collapsed, and Jarvis 
stepped from the vehicle. He walked towards the 
house, and entered with me, after I had embraced him 
and congratulated him on his escape from petrifaction. 

^' Is n't this a tavern ? " I asked. 

" Yas, I s'pose some 'd call it so ; we call it the Pa- 
vilion Hotel." 

" The you do ! " said Jarvis, thawing out with a 

warmth of expression, that the landlord, had he not 
been a little oblivious just then, must have heard. 

" Much business here ? " I further asked. 

" Wal," said he, " in summer it 's tip-top — lots of 
people come here to get the prospective scenery — 



A NIGHT OF IT. 365 

but 'n winter 't an't much. It 's a mighty pretty place 
when the trees is out." 

" Please hurry things up, now, and give us something 
comfortable soon, there 's a good fellow/' I broke in. 
— " Ah, madam/' said I, turning to the lady, who looked 
as cool as the season, " it is rare that one meets with so 
happy a face. The twenty-five years of your life must 
have been a season of continued cheerfulness." (She 
looked forty, to say the least.) " Blessing and blest, — 
that 's the way. A cup of tea, some hot toast, and your 
pleasant company, will make our adventure very happy." 
She went off smiling in reality, while the husband — 
Mottle was his name — continued dismally trying to 
infuse heat into a parlor wood-stove, — an innovation 
on the old fireplace. 

I looked round the room, and recognized many 
things as they had once existed. We were really in the 
old bar-room. What a flood of ghostly fancies ran 
through my brain ! I seemed surrounded by departed 
spirits, so full the scene was of remembrances. But the 
decanters had all fled, the whips and great coats had all 

vanished, the fireplace had been bricked up, and 

" Where is the old landlord ? " I asked, as the memory 
of him obtruded itself at this point in marked contrast 
with the cadaverous man on his knees, blowing away at 
the old stove. 

" Gone to Kansis/' said he, betwixt the puffs ; " took 
to drink arter the custom gin aout, and sold the con- 
sarn." 

The fire was a success ; it sent out a glowing heat, 
the blaze roared up the funnel, the astonished iron 
cracked and snapped as it expanded, and Jarvis and I 

sat before the warm flame in magnificent content, all 
31* 



366 A NIGHT OF IT. 

the while hearing the sound of preparation going on in 
the room beyond, a promise that did n't disappoint us. 

" Landlord/' said I, with a wink, " where are the 
little fellows that once stood along the shelves yonder, 
with labels around their necks ? Any of 'em left ? " 

" Nary one," said he ,* " this is a temp'rance house. 
You see Hardscrabble is nat'rally an onlicensed place, 
and so we gin it up. Been here before, I guess ? " 

I assured him I had. 

" Been a mighty cold day," he said ; " Jo Chesman 
says 'tis the coldest day we've had sence the cold 
Friday, forty year ago ; but I don't know, for that was 
before I moved into the caounty. But I must go aout 
'n see to your horse." 

A supper was soon set before us, more extensive as 
regarded quantity and quality than variety. It was 
good substantial fare, such as one meets with all 
through our country towns j and the landlady waited 
upon us with delightful urbanity of manner, sitting at 
the table and pouring out our tea for us in the most 
social way. 

" Are you related to Squire Mooney, of Green- 
borough ? " I asked the landlady j " the one that in- 
vented the India-rubber knitting-needles, and made an 
immense fortune out of them ? " 

She assured me that she was not. 

" Well, I declare," said I, " I never saw such a like- 
ness ! Did you, Jarvis ? " 

Jarvis averred that if she were to be dressed like 
the 'Squire he should n't know them apart, except from 
the superior good looks of the lady ; and this remark 
finished what was wanting to counteract the effect of 
rising from a warm bed to perform a disagreeable duty. 



A NIGHT OP IT. 367 

She was all good humor, of which we had many proofs 
while we remained in the house. 

We sat down before the fire again after supper, and 
the landlord told us stories about the old house and the 
old people of the neighborhood, while Jarvis took out 
his cigar-case, and smoked in drowsy indifference to 
what we were saying. It was getting near midnight, 
when there came a rap at the door, that started us 
all to our feet. It was not very loud, but it was 
peculiar, — a sort of half emphatic and half timorous 
affair, — and we all three proceeded to the door. I was 
curious to see the intruder, as I felt he was ; and, upon 
opening, the most singular object that I had ever seen 
presented himself He was an oldish sort of a man, 
short and thick-set, with a dress that, for incongruity, 
would compare favorably with that of Madge Wildfire. 
An old fur cap was on his head, that fitted closely to it, 
and it was tied down in some inexplicable way below 
the chin.' He was belted round the waist, like a brig- 
and, and carried in his hand a staff, of formidable 
dimensions, that had, apparently, been wrenched from 
a tree. 

" Can I come in? " he asked, in a hoUow voice. Per- 
missioBi being granted, he came in before the fire. I 
am a man of some considerable nerve, have been in 
scenes where pluck was required to carry a matter 
through, have faced men that I would not care to see 
again ; but the first glance at that face, as it appeared 
before the blaze of the fire, was so revolting that I felt 
my courage giving way. The eyes were sunk in the 
head, the features were shrivelled and thin, and around 
the mouth a smile was constantly playing that appeared 
fiendish to my shocked fancy. But, I said to myself, 
'T is only a man ; you are not going to fear clay that is, 



368 A NIGHT OF IT. 

perhaps, not much more ugly than yourself in the eyes 
of superior perfection ! So I sat still and watched him. 

He took a seat in front of the fire, into which he 
gazed with an abstracted air. The muscles of his face 
seemed entirely beyond his control, and the fiendish 
laugh assumed another phase. I could not make him 
out, as he sat there, his face twisting into all manner of 
most villanous contortions. Whether he was insane, or 
idiotic, or diseased, I could not divine. Jarvis took the 
seat he had occupied, which was very near the strange 
comer, and had resumed his cigar, when, looking round 
into the stranger's face, he became aware of the fear- 
ful seeming of the new guest. His lips refused to draw 
at the cigar, which dropped from between his teeth ; his 
hand trembled, which reached for his handkerchief; his 
eyes dilated, and terror took complete possession. The 
man — if it was a man — sat looking into the fire, not 
one word being spoken, when, with a half-start, he felt 
in his pocket and took out a very large and savage 
knife, which he opened with a jerk. Poor Jarvis was 
apparently powerless from terror. The man's fingers 
clutched convulsively about the knife, until he held it 
in a position suited to his intent, when he raised his 
arm, leaned a little forward, and 

Jarvis started to his feet, with a yell that might have 
been heard a mile, swinging his chair back to the wall, 
and placing himself on it, in entire prostration. 

The man reached forward, and, taking a splinter of 
wood from the floor, proceeded to whittle. 

The landlord and myself rushed to Jarvis. 

"Don't be skeered," whispered mine host; "he won't 
hurt ye. He 's only old Bob Haize, who 's been half 
dead more 'n a hundred times of delirium trimmins, and 



THE PREACHER AND THE CHILDREN. 369 

now it ^s settled into his sistim. There 's nothing har- 
monious about him.'' 

Jarvis swore stoutly that he was n't afraid, and quar- 
relled with me for saying that he was ; but the landlord 
will support what I say. We went to bed about one 
o'clock, and a better bed I never slept in than that in 
the Pavilion Hotel at Hardscrabble, where we had the 
night of it. 



THE PREACHER AND THE CHILDREN 

He spake unto tlie little ones 

In childhoocl's simplest, tenderest word. 
While warm love trembled in Ms tones. 

And eyes were moist and hearts were stirred. 
The quivering lip and eager glance 

Bespoke the young soul's answering thriU ; 
Yet 't was of simple utterance. 

As gentle as a summer rill. 

And older ears, too, drank the sound. 

And loved the music of its strain. 
As thirsty plants and thirsty ground 

Hark to the drip of falling rain ! 
It was as dew to sturdy trees, 

That wakes their half-unconscious powers. 
The note of distant melodies, 

That breaks the gloom of dreary hours. 

The mightiest words that men can speak 

May not be those that touch the heart. 
May never pale the ruddy cheek. 

Or cause the willing tear to start. 
The fierce tornado's bitter blast 

Or thunder's crash assail in vain ; 
The still small voice sweeps gently past. 

And God, confest, is in the strain. 



370 OUT WEST. — CONSCIENCE. 

OUT WEST. 

" Ann Arbor ! " cried the conrluctor, looking in at 
the door. Mrs. Partington looked round, and, seeing 
nobody move, she resumed her knitting. ^^ Ann Arbor," 
said another voice, at the door of the rear end of the 
car. " Well, I declare," said the old lady, " I hope he 
will find her. — Can you tell me, sir," said she, reaching 
over the back of the seat, and speaking to a gentleman 
with a plush cap on, and a ticket sticking in the front 
of it, " who Miss Ann Arbor is ? " — " Nein ferstan," 
replied he.' — "Well," she continued, "I didn't mean 
nothing contemptible, and it wouldn't have cost you 
anything to have given a civil answer." The man 
looked persistently out of the window, and the cars 
moved on, Mrs. Partington consoling herself with the 
reflection that Ann Arbor must be in the other car. 



CONSCIENCE, 



Sharper than -whip of scorpions is the sting, 

As conscience turns its searching eyes within, 
Where broods the spirit with its sullied wing. 

Each pinion drooping in the damps of sin. 
The face may bear the eyidence of joys. 

And mirth ring out in the exultant laugh, — 
The silent monitor the cheat destroys. 

The shout is hollow as an epitaph ■ 
Outlooking through the gloom, the conscious soul 

Shudders in silence with its secret pain, 
Till life and its allurements gain control. 

And dulled, not cured, it onward moves again, • 
A woodlawn garniture of joy concealing 
Beneath its bloom the' graves of joyous feeling. 




''Can you tell me sir," said she, 'H.ho Miss Ann Arbor is." p. ,,o. 



BABIES. 371 



BABIES, 



Babies, we believe, have never been considered as 
being in any way connected with the fine arts, and per- 
haps ^'judicious criticism" might have little benefit 
in improving, in the estimation of the possessors, 
the cherubs chiselled by the hand of nature. The 
style of babies is illimitable, and each family that is the 
delighted possessor of one deems, of course, its own 
the most in accordance with classic taste. Therefore 
it is impossible to fix any standard, beyond mere opin- 
ion, by which to establish the fact of beauty in a baby; 
and we are obliged to leave it with the possessor to 
fix the degree, and say whether pug-nosed or aquiline- 
nosed, big-eyed or little-eyed, dumpy babies or more 
extended babies, are most worthy of the claim to beauty. 
And this brings out the fact that the Great Artist who 
made the work gives also the faculty of appreciating 
the excellence of each particular production to the ones 
most interested. There is great wisdom in this ; for, if 
the same general idea of beauty prevailed, nobody's 
baby would be safe. There would be endless envying, 
and strife, and bickering, and more rivalry to obtain the 
handsomest baby than now prevails at an auction to 
secure some choice article of vertu. [The printer will 
please not put this virtue, as that is an article Avhich is 
rarely sought with such avidity.] Now all are secure, 
and each one is happy in the possession of the hand- 
somest. There is not a more interesting study in the 
world than a baby as a work of art — aside from its 
humanity, the grandeur of its destiny, and all that. 
The tiny hand, so delicately modelled, is a lesson of 
beauty. The transparent nails, the dimpled knuckles, 
the delicate tracery of the palm-lines, all are so admir- 



372 AGRICULTURAL. 

ably executed, that it seems a pity to mar so sweet a 
work by manly growth. Some one has said that infants 
are always graceful in their motions. This is a mechan- 
ical view of the baby, but it is true. From rolling over 
on the carpet to pulling Bub's hair or papa's whiskers, 
the baby's motions are beautiful. The chiselled marble 
never can attain the exquisite finish of the rounded 
cheek, the delicate eyelash, the beautiful mouth, the 
funny nose, the dimpled chin. Ask the happy mother 
or the proud father if they ever saw any one half as 
beautiful as their own little laughing, crowing, cooing, 
drooling, rollicking, rolling, tumbling, fretting little doll 
of a baby, that sits there on the floor, or wherever it 
may be, sucking its little fist, and the answer will be a 
most decided negative. 



AGRICULTURAL. 

Mrs. Partington was out, one morning, scratching 
about the roots like a hen or a lexicographer, with a 
black bonnet on her head, when her neighbor, Mr. 
Yintner, who deals largely in wines, reached his long 
neck over the gate. "Good crop of grapes, ma'am?" 
said he. — " 'Twill be pretty burdensome," she replied, 
looking up to where the seven bunches hung which 
had been left after Ike made himself sick by eating the 
eighth green. — "Any ordium upon the vine?" he asked. 
— "I don't know as regards the odium upon my vine," 
replied she, " but I am not going to make any wine 
that will be likely to have the odium that some wine 
has that is sold for good, that never saw a grape in its 
life." She wondered why he turned away so suddenly, 
but supposed he had an errand round the corner. The 
black bonnet hovered again over the yellow flowers, as 



MRS. PARTINGTON AND PATENT MEDICINES. 373 

a maternal biddy might over a flock of young ducks, 
and the old case-knife was plied vigorously among the 
roots. " Ah, there is health in it," said Mrs. Parting- 
ton, " depend upon it ; for since I Ve been soiling I 've 
moved a structure from my chest, and feel like some- 
body else." Bless her, what an example hers is to 
follow ! 



MRS. PARTINGTON AND PATENT MEDICINES. 

" 1 ^M shore's he 's very kind," said Mrs. Partington, 
as she took out of its wrapper a box of ^^ Hallelujah 
Pills," accompanied with the request that she should 
take them for the sake of old friendship — the agent 
being an early acquaintance of hers. " He 's very kind, 
but taking them is another thing, though they are good 
for all the ails that are impertinent to the flesh, double 
X inclusible. 0, what malefactors these medicine men 
are to the human family, to be sure ! I remember a 
pictorial expectant once that brought up a whole family 
of children, and entirely cured a gentleman who had 
been troubled for a great while with a periodical depot. 
Depend upon it, sir," continued she, addressing old 
Roger, " there 's so much virtue in 'em that everybody 
will be made virtuous, and everybody be made over 
again new, and there '11 be no excuse for dying at all." 
The old lady put the box of pills up on the top shelf, 
out of Ike's way, lest he should take them by mistake, 
as he often did the preserved damsons. '' They 're 
doubtless purgator}^," said she, getting down out of the 
chair in which she had stood. — " Worse than that, I dare 
say," said Roger, buttoning up his coat ; " for I smelt 
sulphur in them." He went out, and she wondered 

what he meant. 

32 



374 SONG OF CHELSEA FERRY. 

SONG OF CHELSEA FERRY. 

WmCH WILL AIsSWEB FOE, AXT LOCALITY WHEILE A FEERY IS EMPLOYED 

Hear our Song of Chelsea Ferry — 

Of its bustle, mirth, and rattle. 
Where the social and the merry 

Ever actively are shown ; 
Where the charm of friendship's prattle 

Gives the heart a faith more cheery. 
That in life's perplexing battle 

It would scarce have known ! 
Chelsea Ferry ! Chelsea Ferry ! 

Hark the chorus : Ding, dong, bell I 
Chelsea Ferry ! Chelsea Ferry ! 

Hear the cheerful Ferry BeU ! 

Sparkling bright is Chelsea Ferry, 

With its blue and flashing water. 
With its voices rich and merry, 

Li the morning blush of day ; 
When around, on every quarter. 

Foamy waves in tumult hurry. 
And the sun, an ardent sporter. 

Dances 'mid the spray. 
Chelsea Ferry ! Chelsea Ferry ! 

Join the chorus : Drag, dong, beU . 
Chelsea Ferry ! Chelsea Ferry ! 

Hear the warning Ferry BeU ! 

Calm and fair is Chelsea Ferry, 

When the warm sun, sinking slowly. 
Backward smiles with radiance cheery 

On the toilers homeward bound ; 
When the moon, with aspect holy. 

Drives the shadows dai'k and dreary. 
By her splendors melancholy 

Lighting aU around. 
Chelsea Ferry^ ! Chelsea Ferry ! 

Join the chorus : Ding, dong, bell ! 
Chelsea Ferry ! Chelsea Ferry ! 

Hear the evening Ferry BeU ! 



MR. BLIFKINS' BABY. 375 

Wider waves than Chelsea Ferry 

Men may sail to grander places, 
"Where the tropic's ruddy berry 

Gleams the glossy foliage through ; 
But Tve OAvn no higher graces 

Than where heart and tongue are merry 
Where the " old familiar faces " 

Beam with aspect true. 
Chelsea Ferry ! Chelsea Ferry ! 

Join the chorus : Ding, dong, bell ! 
Chelsea Ferry ! Chelsea Feri'y 1 

Hear the jolly Ferry Bell ! 



MR. BLIFKINS' BABY. 

That first baby was a great institution. As soon as 
ne came into this ^^ breathing world/' he took command 
in onr house. Everything was subservient to him. 
The baby was the balance-wheel that regulated every- 
thing. He regulated the temperature, he regulated the 
food, he regulated the servants, he regulated me. For 
the first six months of that precious existence, he had 
me up, on an average, six times a night. " Mr. Blifkins,'' 
says my wife, '^ bring that light here, do ; the baby 
looks strangely ; I 'm so afraid it will have a fit ! " Of 
course the lamp was brought, and of course the baby 
lay sucking his fist like a little white bear, as he was. 
" Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, " I think I feel a draught 
of air ; I wish you would get up and see if the window 
is not open a little, because baby might get sick.'' 
Nothing was the matter with the window, as I knew 
very well. " Mr. Blif kins," says my wife, just as I was 
going to sleep again, " that lamp, as you have placed 
it, shines directly in baby's eyes, — strange that you 
have no more consideration ! " I arranged the light and 
went to bed again. Just as I was dropping to sleef 



376 MR. BLIFKINS' BABY. 

again, " Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, " did you think to 
buy that broma to-day for the baby ? " — '' My dear,'^ 
said I, " will you do me the injustice to believe that 1 
could overlook a matter so essential to the comfort of 
that inestimable child?" She apologized very hand- 
somely, but made her anxiety the scape-goat. I forgave 
her, and, without saying a word more to her, I addressed 
myself to sleep. " Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, shaking 
me, " you must not snore so ; you will wake the baby." 
— "Jest so — jest so," said I, half asleep, thinking I 
was Solon Shingle. — " Mr. Blifkins," said my wife, " will 
you get wp and hand me the warm gruel from the nurse- 
lamp for baby ? — The dear child ! if it was n't for his 
mother, I don't know what he would do. How can you 
sleep so, Mr. Blifkins ? " — "I suspect, my dear," said 
I, " that it is because I am tired." — " 0, it 's very well 
for you men to talk about being tired," said my wife ; 
" I don't know what you 'd say if you had to toil and 
drudge like a poor woman with a baby." I tried to 
soothe her by telling her she had no patience at all, and 
got up for the posset. Having aided in answering the 
baby's requirements, I stepped into bed again, with the 
hope of sleeping. "Mr. Blifkins," said my wife. — I 
made no answer. — "Mr. Blifkins," said she, in a louder 
key. — I said nothing. — " dear ! " said that estimable 
woman, in great apparent anguish, " how can a man 
who has arrived at the honor of a live baby of his own 
sleep, when he don't know that the dear creature Avill 
live till morning ? " I remained silent, and, after a 
while, deeming that Mrs. Blifkins had gone to sleep, I 
stretched my limbs for repose. How long I slept I 
don't know, but I was awakened by a furious jab in the 
forehead by some sharp instrument. I started up, and 
Mrs. Blifkins was sitting up in the bed adjusting -some 



i 



PATIENCE. 377 

portion of the baby's dress. She had, in a state of semi- 
somnolence, mistaken my head for the pillow, which 
she customarily used for a nocturnal pincushion. 1 
protested against such treatment in somewhat round 
terms, pointing to several perforations in my forehead. 
She told me I should wilKngly bear such trifling things 
for the sake of the baby. I insisted upon it that I did n't 
think my duty as a parent to that young immortal 
required the surrender of my forehead for a pincushion. 
This was one of many nights passed in this way. The 
truth was, that baby was what every other man's first 
baby is, an autocrat, absolute and unlimited. Such was 
the story of Blifkins, as herelated it. It is but a little 
exaggerated picture of almost every man's experience. 



PATIENCE. 



Patience ! — great virtue ! — I thy praise would sing — 

Sublimest of the virtues Heaven sent — 
(I once admired a maid named Patience King, 

But she is not the Patience herein meant) — 
Patience, that, catlike, by persistence wins ; 

Which sees the corn submitted to the earth. 
And waits until it 's gathered into bins. 

Or smokes in Johnny-cakes upon the hearth ; 
Patience, that brooks a note's maturing pace ; 

Patience, that tracks a ship across the deep ; 
Patience, that weaves the complicated lace ; 

Patience, that sings a crying child to sleep ; 
Patience — grand culmination of my strains — 
That, when allied with baize, cures rheumatiz and sprains. 
32* 



IKE^S COMPOSITIONS IX SCHOOL. 

Ike is weU advanced in his class. He is, in some 
things, beyond the teacher's art, and could, in fact, give 
that functionary some lessons in arts wherein he is per- 
fect. Ike dislikes composition where a theme is given 
out to be written upon by the scholars, and his credits 
are not very great for his efforts in that direction gen- 
erally ; but one day he astonished the master and 
every one by an elaborate article on the Horse. He 
was called upon to read it aloud to the scholars ; and, 
getting upon the platform, he made a bow, and began: 

THE HORSE. 

The horse is a quadruped, with four legs — two be- 
hind, and two before. He has a tail that grows on to 
the hind part of his body, that nature has furnished him, 
with which to drive the flies awav. His head is situ- 
ated on the other end, opposite his tail, and is used prin 
cipally to fasten a bridle to to drive him by, and to put 
into a basket to eat oats with. Horses are very useftd 
animals, and people could n't get along very well with- 
out them — especially truckmen and omnibus- drivers, 
who don't seem to be half gratefid enough because 
they 've got 'em. They are very convenient animals in 
the country in vacation time, and go very fast over the 
country roads when boys sticks pins into 'em, a specie 
of cruelty that I would n't encourage. Horses generally 

are covered with red hair, thousrh some are white, and 

(378) 



ike's compositions in school. 379 

others are gray and black. Nobody ever saw a blue 
horse, which is considered very strange by eminent 
naturals. The horse is quite an intelligent animal, and 
can sleep standing up, which is a very convenient gift, 
especially where there is a crowd and it is difficult to 
get a chance to lay. 

There is a great variety of horses — fast horses and 
slow horses, clothes-horses, horse-mackerel, saw-horses, 
and horse-flies, horse-chestnuts, and horse-radish. The 
clothes-horse is a very quiet animal to have round a 
house, and is never known to kick, though very apt to 
raise a row when it gets capsized. The same may be 
said of the saw-horse, which will stand without tieing. 
Horse-flies is a very vicious beast, and very annoying 
in the summer, when a fellow is in swimming. Horse- 
mackerel I don't know anything about, only that they 
swim in the water, and are a specie of fish. Horse- 
chestnuts is prime to pelt Mickeys with, and horse- 
radish is a mighty smart horse, but bad to have stand- 
ing round where there 's small children. 

The horse is found in all countries, principally in 
lively-stables, where they may be hired to run by the 
mile, considered by them as can get money a great 
luxury, especially in the sleighing season. In South 
America they grow wild, and the Indians catch them 
with nooses that they throw over the horses' heads, 
which must be thought, by the horses, a great noosance. 

He received so much credit for this, that he con- 
tinued his efi'orts, and the following succeeded : 

TOBACCO. 

This is a great article of commerce, and forms one of 
oar greatest social institutions. It enters into the do 



380 ike's compositions in school. 

inestic circle, and drives away care ; because the one 
who smokes in the domestic circle does n't care a snap 
who likes it or not. It comes in different shapes — -sil- 
ver-leaf, fine-cut, cavendish, and nigger-head. This last 
has its name from the negroes in Virginia, who get it 
up for the market. Tobacco was first introduced into 
England in the year 1600, and some say by Sir Walter 
Raleigh ; and the people did n't object to being intro- 
duced to it, though King James wrote something about 
it, intending to give it fits ; but it became in every- 
body's mouth, and soon more "old soldiers" of tobacco 
were to be seen than there was in the army of Eng- 
land. Sir Walter Raleigh's appetite for the weed was 
afterwards impaired by having his head cut off. His 
memory has been puffed as a great benefactory to the 
human race that smokes. Tobacco, when rolled up 
into cigars, is a very agreeable preparation, and the 
mildest form in which it is used. Some people take it 
in snuff, by holding the snuff between the thumb and 
finger, and drawing it up into the nose. This is an 
exciting operation with elderly females, and it is inter- 
esting to watch its effects w^hen the nose is fully 
charged and primed, before it sneezes off. Chewing 
and smoking belong only to men, and such boys as do 
it on the sly, when the old folks is n't round. The es- 
sential oil of tobacco is said to be very dilatorious to 
human life. I don't know why it is essential that there 
should be any oil about it ,* but the apothecaries will 
have it so. Tobacco is called a great leveller, espe- 
cially when a fellow gets sick in trying to learn. Then 
it levels men flat enough. But it is called a leveller 
because a rich man does n't feel above asking a poor 
chap for a light when his cigar is gone out — a beauti- 
ful and sublime instance of magnificent condescension ! 



ike's compositions in school. 381 

Tobacco may be, from this, put among the incentives 
to virtuous action, and a box of short-sixes become a 
missionary in the cause of civilization. It is esti- 
mated that over ten millions of cigars are smoked in 
Boston in a year, and that, if they were stretched, 
one behind another, they would reach round the world 
three times ! It is also said that, if all the old chaws of 
tobacco should be put together at the end of a year, 
that they would make a pile bigger 'n Mount Washing- 
ton. The great invention of spittoons, which has done 
so much to fulfil human expectoration, is the offspring 
of tobacco, and gives a new claim of that delightful 
plant to our gratitude. It is a great help in agriculture, 
and its smoke is used to kill bugs on flowers, when boys 
can do a useful turn, and have fine fun in smoking, and 
nothing be said about it. Much more might be writ 
about tobacco, but I will conclude by just saying that 
it is a great pickpocket, and takes the money away from 
a fellow like sixty. 

The following, of a similar character with the above, 
also excited considerable remark among the scholars : 

THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 

This is the greatest bird that has ever spread his 
j wings over this great and glorious country. The place 
] where he builds his nest is called an eyrie, away up on 
I the precipices where the foot of man can't come, though 
I perhaps a boy's might. The eagle is a ferocious fellow, 
! and sits on the top of the cliffs and looks sharp for 
1 plunder. He gets tired of waiting, and then he starts 
I out in the blue expensive heavens, and soars all around, 
I on his opinions, over the land and the water, to see 



382 ike's compositions in school. 

what he can pounce down upon. But, though he is 
called a very cruel bird, he always preys before eating, 
just like any good moral man at the head of his family. 
He eats his victuals raw, which is an unfavorable habit, 
but it is supposed that he eats it so because he likes 
to. He is a very courageous bird, and w^ill fight like 
blazes for his young, and steals chickens w^herever he 
can see them. He has been known to carry off a young 
baby to his nest, which seems to show that eagles love 
little children. He is a bird of great talons, and is much 
respected by birds of the feathered tribe that are afraid 
of him. 

This bird is a great study for artists, but appears to 
best advantage on the ten-dollar gold pieces, and fifty- 
cent pieces, and pretty well on the dimes, as he sits 
gathering up his thunderbolts under him, as if he was 
in a great hurry to be off. He has lately broke out on 
the new cent, and seems as if, in his hurry, he had 
dropped all his thunder. The American eagle is the 
patriot's hope, and the inspiration of Fourth of July. 
He soars through the realms of the poet's fancy, and 
whets his beak on the highest peak of the orator's 
imagination. He is in the mouth of every politician, 
so to speak. He is said by them to stand on the Rocky 
Mountains, and to dip his bill into the Atlantic, while 
his tail casts a shadow on the Pacific coast. This is all 
gammon. There never was one more than eight feet 
long from the tip of one wing to the tip of tother. His 
angry scream is heard ever so far, and he don't care a 
feather for anybody. Take him every way, he is an 
immense fowl, and his march is over the mounting wave, 
with the star-spangled banner in his hand, whistling 
Yankee Doodle. 



ike's compositions in school. 883 

Ike's composition upon the Dog has obtained a world 
wide celebrity, and has already been installed as a 
classic : 

THE DOG. 

The dog is a very useful animal, and very intelligent. 
He knows lots and noses more, and runs after sticks 
and goes overboard after stones delightfully. He is a 
fine companion in the fields, and chases grasshoppers 
and ground sparrows beautifully. He is a loving 
animal, and licks your hand when you lick him. He 
don't never smile, but has a ridiculous way of Avagging 
his tail when he is glad, as if by his tail he would tell 
the story of his joy. Dogs is very apt to quarrel, 
especially when they are set on by bad boys, and growl 
and bark at nights, and howl under windows where 
folks are sick, and scare timid folks to death for fear 
they are going to die. A dog's nose is a prime thing 
to pinch, and seems to be put where it is on purpose. 
Some say' that it is made of India-rubber, but that 's all 
nonsense. 

A great many things are told about dogs and their 
intelligence. Some of 'em are true, and some of 'em 
isn't. They can carry bundles, and know when it is 
time to go to dinner, and love to tease cats, and make 
a terrible fuss when any one puts turpentine on 'em or 
ties kettles to their tails. There is a great many differ- 
ent kinds of dogs, and no one kind alike. There are 
pointers, and setters, and tarriers, and bull-dogs, and 
lap-dogs, and spaniels, and water-dogs, and Newfound- 
land dogs, and St. Bernard's dogs, and watch-dogs, and 
dog-watches, and Lion. Pointers and setters are used 
by hunters in finding game, and are liable to get shot 
by near-sighted people who can't tell a dog from a rab- 
bit. Newfoundland dogs were sent by Providence on 



384 tke's compositions in school. 

purpose to pull little children from the water, and the 
St. Bernard's to keep folks from freezing to death in the 
Rocky Mountains. They take little boys on their backs, 
and carry them to some safe place, and then go back 
after more. Bull-dogs are vicious beasts, and don't like 
to have boys meddle with 'em, and the boys, being very 
considerate, does n't meddle with 'em. They let 'em 
alone ever so much, and don't tackle 'em into wagons, 
as they do some others. Lap-dogs an't of no use to 
nobody but for women to play with who an't got no 
children, and it is a pity they had n't. They are made 
on purpose, and have long, white, silky hair, and blue 
ribbons round their necks. All the lap-dogs are named 
Fiddle. The faithful watch-dog is an unwholesome chap 
for burglars. " I love to hear the watch-dog's honest 
bark," and it is prime to strike on to the shutters of a 
store in the evening, and hear what a muss the watch- 
dog makes about it. They don't like to be disturbed, I 
guess, from their cat-naps. Lion is a great dog. 

He is gentle, lie is kind. 
And his tail sticks out behind, 

and you can't find a better dog anywhere than he. He 
is black all over, only he is white on his stomach, and 
on the end of his tail. He loves fun, and goes into the 
dirt with perfect impurity. He knows when it is dinner- 
time, and is very useful in clearing up stray bits of 
meat that might be wasted. He 's a great friend to the 
Metropolitan Railroad, for it is over two years since he 
first attempted to bark the omnibuses out of Washing- 
ton-street, and if he has one failing stronger than 
another, it is a love for the butcher on Shawmut-avenue, 
whom he never fails to call upon when passing. I 
could tell you more about dogs, and dog-vanes, and 



ike's compositions in school. 385 

doggerel; and sad dogs, and merry dogs ; but you miglit 
think me dogmatical, and I guess I Ve said enough. 

Ike's ideas of Politics are very profound, showing a 
remarkable astuteness in the mind of Young America : 

POLITICS. 

Politics is a name derived from two Greek words, poll 
and tick. Polls is the place where people exercises their 
free sufferings, after they have paid nine shillings for 'em 
into the city treasury; and tick is trust, that all the 
parties want the people to have in 'em before election ; 
and both together make Politics, an institution of our 
country next to the house of correction in importance. 
Politics is a business that has to be followed pretty 
close to make anything by it, and is made up of hurras, 
torch-light processions, music, mass meetings, and hum- 
bug. Politics is an interesting element in families 
where the people all think differently, and go in strong 
for discussion ; it keeps things lively, and is excellent 
for weak lungs. Torch-light processions are great for 
lightening the minds of the people, and the pockets of 
them that gets 'em up. These, with American flags and 
Hail Columbia, makes the people take fire with enthu- 
siasm, and take cold in the night air, as they go round 
making Judies of themselves and everybody that looks 
at 'em. Politics is very apt to bring about broken 
heads among them that indulges in 'em too freely, like 
whiskey, and it is always best to see that you get the 
right article. There 's a number of kinds of politics, 
and every politician believes, his kind is best. The 
Democrats think theirs is best, and the Whigs, and the 
Republicans, and the Americans, theirs. They can't be 
all best. Those are the best that are the strongest, and 
33 



386 ike's compositions in school. 

elections always result in favor of them that has the 
most votes. Politics is capital exercise for the ingenu- 
ity of women who have n't anything else to do at home, 
whose babies can take care of themselves, and won't 
tumble into the fire if they leave 'em to go to political 
meetings, or to see torch-light processions. Politics is 
the meat that the American eagle feeds on when he 
soars to heaven, and then comes down again as hungry 
as a meeting-house. Politics should be sustained among 
our most cherished institutions, and next to fun, clam- 
chowder, and going smelting, they are the best thing 
round. 

" The star-spangled banner, 0, long may it wave 
O'er tlie land of tlie free and the home of the brave ! " 

The following, relating to a famous locality, will be 
read with deep interest, for its truthfulness to history, 
and for other reasons : 

PLYMOUTH EOCK. 

This rock was brought to this country in the May 
Flower, in the year 1492. by the Pilgrims, under direc- 
tions of Elder Brewster, who afterwards moved to 
Boston, and became an alderman of that city. Plymouth 
Bock was put on a wharf, where part of it remains to 
the present day, as people may see, if they will take 
the trouble to scratch the dirt away. No reason is 
given for putting the rock up so far from the water, 
except it was to keep it out of the Avet. It was on this 
rock that Governor Carver shook hands with Samoset, 
who said, " Welcome, Englishmen." It is recorded that 
when Samoset came up Governor Carver asked him if 
he was a real Ingine, or only a member of an Ingine 
company. The rook has long been regarded as a very 



ike's compositions in school. 387 

famous place, and a great many things have been 
written about it. Strangers coming on the coast ahvays 
climb to the mast-heads with a spy-glass to see Plym- 
outh Rock. The American Eagle for a great many 
years used to come and whet his beak on it ; but in 
1653, Miles Standish, in order to keep it from getting 
stolen, took all there was of it above ground under his 
arm, and carried it up and put it in front of Pilgrim 
Hall, where it remains at the present time, invested with 
great interest and an iron fence. The fence bears the 
names of all the Pilgrims in cast-iron letters that can't 
be rubbed out. The other part of the rock the descend- 
ants of the Pilgrims have covered up with land, prob- 
ably to save it from being worn out by the allusions 
touching it, that are throAvn off by Fourth of July ora- 
tors and other patriots. Plymouth Rock is the corner- 
stone in the cellar wall of our republican structure, 
paregorically speaking, and the spirit of Liberty sits 
upon it with a drawn sword in one hand and the torch 
of freedom in the other. The monument to the Pilgrim 
Fathers, upon Plymouth Rock, will be three thousand 
feet above the level of the sea, and can be easily seen 
from New Haven, the place the Pilgrims came from, 
with the naked eye. It was concerning this rock that 
Pierpont wrote his celebrated ode, commencing, 

" We 've found the rock, the travellers cried," 

supposed to allude to the Cushman procession that 
visited the spot, at the time of the great famine. Pere- 
grine White, the first white child born in Massachusetts, 
was born on Plymouth Rock, and Miles Standish, when 
John Alden swindled him out of Priscilla, in 1803, 
sharpened his sword on Plymouth Rock, swearing 



388 MES. SLED PUT OUT. 

revenge. In short, Plymoutli Rock is one of the pal- 
ladiums of our liberty ; and if foes invade the shores of 
Plymouth at high water, — for they can never get in at 
low tide, — the people will throw this rock in their 
teeth. It is a precious legacy from the Past to the 
Present; and from it may be reckoned the Pilgrim's 
Progress. 



MRS. SLED PUT OUT, 

" I 'VE just come from seeing old Mr. Sprat/' said 
Mrs. Sled, dropping in upon Mrs. Partington, suddenly, 
and sinking into a seat as she spoke. " Poor creatur, he 
does look miser'ble ; he 's got one foot in the grave, you 
may depend." — " Has he, indeed?" said the sympathetic 
dame. "Well, I noticed, the other day, he walked rather 
limpid, as he went along." Mrs. Partington snilBfed as if 
she smelt something. " It seems to be cotton a burn- 
ing," said she, drawing a long breath ; " don't you smell 
anything ? " Mrs. Sled informed her that she had a bad 
cold in her head, and couldn't be exactly said to pos- 
sess any of her five senses. Mrs. Partington sniffed 
again. "I declare," said the lady whose five senses 
were blunted by the cold, " I declare I feel something," 
which showed that the sense of feeling was not want- 
ing, and, jumping to her feet, disclosed her dress on fire 
behind. " Get off my match-rope ! " said Ike, dashing in 
with half a bunch of crackers in his hand. The intima- 
tion was unnecessary, and, as Mrs. Sled extinguished 
herself in the sink, she breathed an inward prayer for 
the hope of the house of Partington. 



TALE OP A HOESE. 389 

TALE OF A HORSE. 

When Topple was in the horse-trade, he had his eyes 
constantly about him for a speculation, and one day, in 
Yermont, he fell in, among other specimens, with a 
horse whose principal points were the points of bono 
projecting through his skin, — a long, lean, lank, white 
animal, that had got some w^ay beyond his teens, whose 
qualities as a good horse were vouched for by a neigh- 
bor, who said he had knowed him for twenty-four year, 
and a kinder critter never led oxen in a plough than he. 

The horse was bought at a discount, and shipped, 
with three others, on a car for Boston, where he arrived 
safe, but scarcely sound. Topple thought it a hard in- 
vestment, and felt somewhat anxious as to how he 
should get his money back again, concluding at last 
that he would undoubtedly make enough on the other 
three to cover the loss which he must, he conceived, 
sustain on this one. He had him stabled, and then the 
idea occurred to Topple that he would attempt a little 
factitious excellence for the poor beast, and endeavor to 
put him off respectably. A horse of some celebrity had 
died just before, and Topple borrowed a large cover 
that was wont to envelop the animal after running, and 
covered up his own Rosinante therewith. 

Immediately afterwards appeared an advertisement in 
the Post and other papers, that the famous trotter 
White-Foot was on exhibition at Bailey's, and would be 
sold on a certain day, inviting people to call and see 
him. The usual formula was gone through with, of 
" sound," " kind," " stand without tieing," &c., conclud- 
ing with the statement that he had gone his mile in less 
than three minutes. The advertisement brought many 

horse fanciers to the stable, Avhere White-Foot stood 
33* 



390 TALE OF A HORSE. 

in a bed of straw, covered by the robe that had been 
borrowed. 

Topple thought that boldness was the best policy, 
and called the attention of his visitors to the fact of the 
horse being so poor, making the statement gratuitously 
that he had fairly run the flesh off his bones ; and it 
seemed probable, as the flesh was not there. 

As the day of sale arrived. Topple visited his racer at 
regular periods, and with a lath, rigorously applied, 
endeavored to excite in him a disposition to appear vig- 
orous on inspection before the public ; and succeeded 
so far that, before the time arrived, the sound of Top- 
pie's feet on the stable-floor wrought the poor beast up 
to a perfect frenzy. He stamped and struggled in a 
manner extravagant enough to establish a large repu- 
tation for mettle, and Topple was satisfied. " Perhaps," 
whispered he to the auctioneer, " we may get fifty dol- 
lars for him." 

The horse was brought to the block, and at the sight 
of Topple he manifested every sign of spirit. His nos- 
trils were distended, his eye brightened, and he stepped 
round nervously, as though he were impatient to have 
somebody buy him, that he might be going, inside of 
three minutes, over the road. 

" How much am I offered for the horse ? " said Bai- 
ley ; " how much for White-Foot ? Shall I have a bid ? " 

" Seventy-five doUars," said a voice. 

" Seventy-five — thank you — seventy-five — shall I 
hear any more ? " 

" One hundred," another voice. 

" Twenty-five," first bidder. 

" Fifty," second. 

" Go on, gentlemen," said Bailey, letting the bidding 
proceed, seeing the competition ; " any more than one 



TALE OF A HORSE. 391 

hundred and ^'^j for a horse that has been his mile in 
less than three minutes ? " 

^' One hundred and sixty/' another bidder. 

" Sixty-five/' first bidder. 

^' Seventy," a new voice. 

'' Seventy-five ! " first and second together. 

" Any more than one hundred and seventy-five ? All 
done at one — seventy — five? Sold! Dr. Small, of 
Cape Cod, takes him at one hundred and seventy-five." 

" The bid was mine," said the second bidder ; " and I 
insist upon it." 

The contestant was a man living in town, and the 
auctioneer thought that, for prudential reasons, it would 
be better to let the beast go out of town, if he had 
strength to get out; so he gravely decided that Dr. 
Small's bid was the one he had heard, and to him he 
had knocked off the bargain. 

So anxious was the disappointed man to procure the 
horse that he offered the doctor fifteen dollars for his 
bargain, who informed him that he could not trade. 
. The price, he said, was not much to him ; he wanted a 
horse that would go quickly, and, as he had got a good 
one, he should hold on to him. 

The money was paid over, and the animal delivered 
to the purchaser, who procured a wagon and harness 
and started for home, in the hope of reaching Cape Cod 
in about two hours. About that length of time after 
he left, a horse was heard moderately approaching the 
stable, and the face of old White-Foot was seen once 
more in the precinct. 

" Well," said the doctor, as he got out of the wagon, 
" I want to do now, what I should have done before, 
ask about this horse. Who knows anything about him? 
This advertisement says" — holding up a copy of the 



392 MRS. PARTINGTON ON THE CURRENCY. 

Post and reading the description — '' that he has been 
his mile inside of three minutes. Now, I should like to 
know when." 

" Not more than three weeks ago he did it," replied 
Topple ; " I saw him myself." 

'' Where, for goodness' sake?" said the doctor. 

" On the down grade of the Rutland Railroad, in a 
freight-car," replied the imperturbable Topple. 



MRS. PARTINGTON ON THE CURRENCY. 

"It 's always so," said Mrs. Partington, turning over 
in her hand a Spanish quarter of a dollar ; and Ike, who 
was tackling Lion to the clothes-basket, lifted up his 
eyes inquiringly to her face. " It 's always so," she 
continued, " that the muscular gender is put before the 
ephemeral. No matter what it 's about. If a baby is 
born into a family, it is Mr. So-and-so's baby — the 
mother has n't anything to do about it. She is n't any- 
wheres in courts of law or iniquity, and her rights is 
thought no more of than the wind, which goes where it 
listeth. She has n't nothing to say about the disposi- 
tion of her property, or that of her children, though 
heaven knows tJieiy^ disposition would be bad enough 
unless she did have something to do with it. And 
everything bad is laid against her. Now, here is this 
occurrency business, as soon as its value is deprecated 
the women is blamed for it." Ike got up and looked 
at the coin, and thought how many marbles, and how 
many peanuts, and how many oranges, and how many 
sticks of molasses candy, it would buy, and asked her 
if it was n't a good one. " Yes," replied she ; " it is 
good as far as it goes, and this is the mischief of it — 



A FOURTH OF JULY INCIDENT. 393 

when it was worth twenty-five cents it was said to be 
par value, and now that it is cut down it is mar value. 
It 's always so about everything. There an't nothing 
like justice ever done to the women." She dropped 
the coin into her pocket, and it jingled merrily among 
the keys; and the seven copper cents, and the old silver 
thimble, and the scissors, and the knitting-sheath, and 
the steel spectacle-case, as if it were not a poor, depre- 
ciated thing at all, but were yet a full quarter. And 
Ike thought out this moral from it, with the help of 
Lion: That, though the world depreciate us twenty 
per cent., we should feel just as happy with a self-con- 
sciousness of par value at heart, and jingle on merrily 
among the old copper or brass that may be around us. 



A FOURTH OF JULY INCIDENT. 

Phiz ! snap ! bang ! and a half-bunch of red crackers 
cut up mad capers in Mrs. Partington's little kitchen, 
while the old lady mounted in a chair, with terror on 
her face and blue yarn stockings on her feet, to get 
out of the way of the concussion. The crackers were 
thrown into the windows, and the smoke of the vil- 
lanous saltpetre scaled the newly whitewashed ceiling, 
and rolled up in volume before the profile of the old 
corporal that hung upon the wall, a fitting offering to 
the mihtary hero thus preserved. " Gracious good- 
ness ! " said Mrs. Partington, with a voice of alarm, 
looking amid the smoke like the sun in a foggy morn- 
ing. " What upon airth is coming now? who throwed 
them snap-dragons in here to frighten me into my 
grave before my time comes ? " Snap ! went another 
cracker, directly beneath the chair on which she was 



394 SCRATCHED GXEISS AND BEAR SKIN. 

standing. ^' Bless me ! who 's a-doing of it? I see you, 
YOU inflammable scamp ! " said she, looking hard at 
the window ; but it was a pleasant fiction, an expedient 
of her fancy that the exigency suggested. She waited 
a moment and got down from the chair, when, bouncing 
in through the window, came another cracker, exploding 
close to Mrs. Partington's ear. Incensed at this, she 
looked from the window to see the perpetrator of the 
outrage, but could see nothing. Could she but haYe 
looked around the corner of the house, she would haYe 
detected Ike's red face wrinkled with mirth, and a piece 
of port-fire about an inch long between that promising 
young gentleman's fingers. " Something certainly must 
be afire," said she, shortly afterwards, searching round, 
under the table, in the clothes-basket, in the reticule 
upon the chair; but not a spark of fire could she find. 
'' It must be cotton a burning," continued she, feeling 
anxious. — " Your cap 's blazing," said Ike, looking in 
innocently ; and the old lady tore the burning muslin 
from her head and threw it on the floor. As she told 
the story to Ike about the crackers, how he wished he 
had been at home that he might haYe defended her ! 
and the dame gaYe him a bright dime for his earnest 
dcYotion. 



SCRATCHED GXEISS AXD BEAR SKIX. 

" What is the meaning of ' scratched gneiss ' ? " said 
Ike, stopping in the perusal of Dr. Kane's work, as his 
eye was attracted by a picture of a rock thus indicated. 
The old lady had listened to some passages of the book, 
which he had read to her, with tearful interest. '' It 
must be," said she, after a few moments' reflection, 
" where they scratched 'em in climbing up oYer the 



WATERING-PLACES. 395 

rocks.'* — "Scratched what?" cried Ike, interrupting 
her.— "Their knees/' replied she.— "Who said knees?" 
responded he, saucily; "I said gneiss — g-n-e-i-s-s — 
what's that?"— "I guess it means knees," said she; 
"the printer has spelt it wrong. It is strange what 
queer arrows they do make in printing. They were in 
their bare skins, you know, and got their knees scratched. 
How cold they must have been, to be sure ! " Ike turned 
to the picture of Accomodah, and asked her if he was 
in his bare skin, emphasizing the word " bare ; " and 
asked her, too, if she had lived so long in the world and 
did n't know the difference between a bare skin and a 
bear skin. What knowledge the youngster evinced ! 
He could show his grandmother how to suck eggs ! Mrs. 
Partington looked gravely at him. " I could know very 
easily what a bare skin was," said she, " if I was to 
treat you as you deserve, for your misrespect." Ike 
seemed penitent, and she gave him a three-cent piece 
to save till he got enough to put into the Five-Cent 
Savings Bank. 



WATERING-PLACES, 



" Are you going to any watering-place, this summer?" 
asked a young friend of Mrs. Partington, on one of the 
rainy days, the present week. She had just put up the 
window to keep out the damp and disagreeable air, and 
palled her handkerchief more up over her shoulder to 
keep off the chill. " Watering-places," said she, with a 
gentle tap on the cover of her box, at the same time 
looking at Ike, who was engaged in making a kite out 
of the last Puritan JRecorder , that the dame had lain by 
for her Sunday reading, — "watering-places I don't think 



396 HEZEKIAH AND EUTH. 

mucli of, now-a-days. There an't no need of 'em since 
the luclvy-motives have run off with the stages ; but 
once, as the old pumps stood by the waysides, under 
the ambiguous trees, with a hollow log for the cattle 
to drink out of, it seemed Hke a horses in the desert, 
as some of 'em used to say." — " My dear madam," said 
her young friend, " I mean the fashionable watering- 
places, where people go to spend the summer." — " 0," 
she replied, " that 's it, is it ? Well, we need n't go 
away from home to find a watering-place to-day ; and, 
them that do, depend upon it," — and here she laid her 
mouth close to his ear, and spoke in a whisper, — "they 
go for something else besides the water ! " She gave 
him a queer look as she said this, and pointed signifi- 
cantly to the' little buffet in the corner, where an old- 
fashioned cut-glass decanter stood, surrounded by half 
a dozen little glasses, as if they were young decanters 
just hatched out; but what she meant we dare not at- 
tempt to explain. Ike just then finished his kite by 
burning the holes for the " belly-band " with the small 
point of Mrs. Partington's scissors, that had been heated 
red-hot for the purpose. 



HEZEKIAH AND EUTH. 

A STORY TTITH A MORAL. 

'T WAS in the summer season of the year. 
In some town somewhere near toLehanon, 

One Sabbath afternoon serene and clear. 
The Shaking Quaker meeting being done. 

That Hezekiah Drab and Ruth his sister 
Left the conventicle and homeward went ; 

The service had been a tremendous " twister " - 
Three mortal hours of sleep and silence blent. 



HEZEKIAH AND RUTH. 397 

And Hez., to make the distance someTvhat shorter, 

Proposed to Ruth to cut across the field, 
And she, as an obedient sister ought to, 

Said but " Yea, verily," and round they wheeled. 

They "wandered on in silence, Hezekiah 

With his broad brim substantially put on, 
Whilst Ruth, straight doTvn, in simplest of attire. 

Looked like a chest of drawers, the brasses gone. 

And on they went across the fields of fern. 

And on through meadows drest in greenest guise ; 

Not to the right or left did either turn. 

But kept right on, just as the wild bee flies. 

At last they neared a brook of wide expanse. 

No bridge or ford to cross its turbid flood. 
"Verily," quoth Hezekiah, in advance, 

" It seemeth me we 're stopped, as clear as mud. 

*' But yet the distance is but small, forsooth, 
And when a boy I 've jumped far more than that." — 

** Yea, but, my brother," said the prudent Ruth, 

" Now thou art older grown, and round, and fat." — 

*' Thou talkest like a very foolish woman. 

And thou shalt see my speediness of limb ; 
So stand aside and give me ample room in 

Which to run, and o'er the pool to sldm ! " 

*' Thee cannot, Hezekiah," urged the maid ; 

But Hezekiah's pluck, 't was vain to stump it ! 
He looked broad at her, saying, " Who 's afraid ? 

I tell thee, Ruth, assuredly I '11 jump it." 

He threw his broad brim on the turfy ground. 
Then walked away a distance from the brook. 

Then started onward with a mighty bound. 
The while his fat form like a jelly shook. 

He leaped — 0, cruel Fate, that thus will dash 
The finest hopes that ever yet did spring ! — 

Down went the Quaker in the pool, " ker-splash,' 
Just like a brick, or such ignoble thing. 
34 



398 BURGLARS IN THE PARTINGTON MANSION. 

And Ruth's clear voice rang out right merrily ; 

0, laughed she with unquaker freedom stout ! 
" Thou well hast proved thy great agility — 

Come hither, brother, and I '11 help thee out ' 

Then Hezekiah, with a doleful look. 

Cooled the ambitious fever of his blood. 

Crawled from the bottom of the turbid brook, 
And from his face wiped the obscuring mud. 

*' Now, sister Ruth," cried he, " this brook is wide ; 

And though my foot is firm and fleet my bound, 
I must confess that I am satisfied 

'T is best not jump upon uncertain ground." 

BIORAL. 

All ye who, like the Quaker, choose to leap. 
Be sure at first that you can clear the flood. 

Lest, like the Quaker, you may come off cheap, 
And find your fortunes floundering in the mud. 



BURGLARS IN THE PARTINGTON MANSION. 

The conversation turned upon various burglaries that 
had been committed in the town, and Mrs. Partington 
gave it as her opinion that any one who would bulga- 
riously break into a house would be mean enough to 
steal, particularly if he took anything. This opinion 
was given without any hesitation, and the listeners 
admitted that they thought so too. The old dame was 
standing with her snuff-box in her left hand, and her 
right fore-finger raised, preparatory to making some 
new remark, when a door was. heard to slam violently 
in the attic. ^' What can that be ? " said one, listening 
attentively, with ears and eyes wide open. — " It must be 
the cat," replied Mrs. Partington, calmly. " I am not 



BURGLARS IN THE PARTINGTON MANSION. 399 

infected with fear of bunglers. Blessed is lie that has 
nothing, for it can't be taken away from him.'' A noise 
as of a stealthy step on the attic stairs was heard a 
moment after. " What 's that ? " was asked by one of 
the most timid. — "Don't be decomposed," said Mrs. 
Partington ; "it may be a breath of air, bnt we will go 
and see what it is." She was always very resolute, 
and never heard a sound in the house that she did not 
ascertain at once what caused it. The dame and her 
guests opened the door, and proceeded to the attic ; but 
there was no evidence of disarrangement there. They 
then proceeded through all the rooms to the cellar, 
with the same result. They stopped a moment to listen, 
when they heard the door of a closet in the room above 
gently closed. There were numerous garments hung 
in this closet ; and, among the rest, the black bombazine 
dress that had mourned for forty years the loss of Paul. 
Cautiously moving towards the spot, they opened the 
door. Everything hung in its position. There were 
the dress and sundry flannel garments, that we forget 
the name of, and Ike's Sunday jacket, and lots of other 
things. They were just about turning their attention 
to a search in other quarters, when the timid one cried 
out, " There is the bugler ! " And sure enough, there, 
from beneath the bombazine dress, protruded a pair of 
legs encased in blue woollen stockings, and terminat- 
ing with a pair of thick brogans. " Who are you, and 
what do you want ? " said Mrs. Partington, in a tone 
denoting great strength of mind, and some lungs. There 
was no answer to the question, though a spasmodic 
movement in one of the blue stockings denoted con- 
sciousness. " What do you want here ? " she repeated, 
a little tremulous, as if she were slightly " infected." 
"Do you come hero to rob us in our beds, and murder 



400 A TEXT APPLIED. 

our propriety ? " She probably meant " murder us in 
our beds and rob us of our property," but she evidently 
was confused. The blue yarn stockings still maintained 
their position. " If you don't come out, I '11 call in a 
policeman and have you shut up in solitary confine- 
ment." The stockings moved ; and now a chink opened 
among the pendent garments, through which protruded 
a face glowing with mirth and mischief, and a laugh, 
rich and unctuous with boyish glee, broke the silence. 
" Why, Isaac ! " said the good dame, '*' how could you 
do so ? I have a great mind to punish you severally for 
your naughty conduct." But Ike and the blue stock- 
ings passed out of the door, and anger passed from the 
memory of Mrs. Partington. But Miss Prew, who had 
reached the period when chance for matrimony had 
become a sort of dead reckoning, said to Mrs. Spry, 
another of the party, that if that boy was her'n, she 
guessed he 'd have to take some. 



A TEXT APPLIED. 

Love one another, says the sacred word, — 

A good authority, by all admitted ; 
And every heart by human feeling stirred 

Has owned the high command as for it fitted. 
Without this love the world were worse than — well, 

I 'm not particular the place to mention, 
And yet, howe'er with it the bosom swell, 

We must restrict its general extension. 
Our brothers we may love, but ne'er a sis 

Beyond the limit of a nice convention, 
And we should never entertain a kiss 

E'en in our most remote wish or intention. 
Woe be to him who loves some little sister, 
And woer still should he by chance have kissed her. 



JUSTLY CRITICAL. — STARRY. 401 



JUSTLY CRITICAL. 



'^ Well, I am so glad it all came out right !" said Mrs. 
Partington, wiping her eyes at the closing scene in 
Sonnambula. '^ I confess," continued she, "that it did 
look agin the young woman to be found in the bed of 
the strange gentleman ; but she had her shoes and 
clothes on, and, if the young man had really loved her, 
he wouldn't have believed her to be guilty so soon, — 
indeed, he would n't ; for, depend upon it, if a young- 
man really loves a young woman, he will be the last to 
believe anything to her decrepitude, and be the last to 
cast her off. And them pheasants, too, — only think of 
the sneaking way in which they come in to detect her, 
as if it was their business, anyhow. I dare say none 
of 'em was any better than they ought to be ; and what 
a to-do they made, to be sure, because they thought she 
was guilty ! 0, 1 despise sich pretensiveness ! And as 
for the girl that made all the trouble, I could see that she 
was enviable, and wanted the young man herself, and 
did n't care any more about the virtoo of the thing than 
the fifth wheel of a coach." She here stopped, and thrust 
the lorgnette that she had borrowed into its case, and 
drew her shawl up about her neck ; while Ike stood with 
the blue umbrella at " present," waiting for her to come 
out of her seat. 



STARRY. 

Mrs. Partington opened her eyes wide, as Ike read 
in the paper that there would be an " occultation of 
Jupiter with the moon." — "Occultation!" what a word 
for Mrs. Partington, who had not quite all of Worcester's 
unabridged dictionary by heart. " Occultation ? " que- 
ried she, with an air of doubt, as if but half sure that 

34* 



402 BIETH-DAY OF LAFArETTF- 

she had heard rightly, and looking earnestly at the 
boy, to unravel her doubt. — " Occultation/' replied Ike, 
putting his finger on the word with an emphasis that 
made a hole right through the paper, entirely ruining 
the story of the " Seven Champions, or the Bloody 
Wreath," on the other side of the sheet ; '•' it is so 
here." — " Well," said she, '^ get the directory and see 
what is 00 — oc — " — " Occultation," prompted Ike, as 
he passed out to find his school-books, hid during vaca- 
tion time. — " That is a queer word," meditated she, like 
Harvey among the tombs ; " and what occupation Ju- 
piter can have with the moon, I don't see. I declare I 
am all in the dark about it ; and these explanatory mat- 
ters, and consternations and things, I believe are all 
moonshine. Let me have all the stars to look at, and 
other folks may see what else they can in the corncave 
on high." Ike came back without the " directory," and 
there was a strange dark mark about the corners of his 
mouth, that looked like the raspberry-jam the old lady 
kept up stairs for sickness. 



BIRTH-DAY OF LAFAYETTE. 

Bright memory of the past ! tliy lofty name 

Is woyen with our land's exalted story. 
And on the tablet of her lasting fame 

Is wrought in fire the record of thy glory. 
Entwined with Washington's in one grand line, 

'T will live undimmed while Freedom's sons inherit 
The love of priceless Liberty, divine. 

Secured to them by his chivalric spirit. 
While generous deeds are held in just esteem. 

While Virtue claims the meed of approbation, 
While Valor weaves the warm enthusiast's dream. 

While Right within the land upholds its station. 
Will grateful memories, like to-day's, return. 
To wreathe anew the garland round his urn. 



CROAKING. 403 



CROAKING. 

Commencing about frog-time; which leads to a half- 
beHef that there is an affinity between the croakers of 
the human family and those of the marshes, the croakers 
begin to open their throats, and find abundant scope 
for their fancy in all sorts of directions. The weather 
is an immensely prolific theme. " How confounded cold 
it is!" says one croaker; '''t seems to me we never 
shall have any warm weather again." — '^ Well, did ever 
anybody see such infernal weather as this is?" says 
another croaker ; " 't is nothing but rain, rain, all the 
time." — ''This abominable dust," says another croaker, 
'' is enough to blind one. It is a thundering nuisance." — 
'^ Here 's this east wind been here for a fortnight," says 
the mercantile croaker, who has a ship just ready to go 
to sea. The wind has, in fact, been " out " but two 
days, but the growler's imagination extends the time. 
" Will thi« mud ever dry up ?" asks the votary of fashion, 
as she looks out upon the sloppy street with the remem- 
brance of a dress sent home three days before, with the 
probability of the fashion changing before she has a 
chance to wear it out. The splenetic croak as they 
watch the vane for a change of wind, and others croak 
because it does change. The world is full of croakers. 

We have wondered if there is anything else in the 
animal kingdom, but men and frogs, that croaks. The 
croak of the latter, however, is his song. He can't help 
it. He feels jolly in his drink, and utters himself — not 
very pleasantly, it is true — for the fun of the thing. 
The frog doesn't inveigh against Providence for send- 
ing bad weather; he never growls at the east wind, 
never complains at the heat — he sings the same song 
at all seasons. Proving this, leaves man the undivided 



404 HEATHEN SYMPATHY. 

honor of being the only croaker. The horse goes 
on -ancomplaining in his course^ not croaking a bit 
about his fate ; Lion, though compelled to wait for his 
dinner till five o'clock, never croaks about it, but wags 
his tail and waits ; the robin sings the same joyous 
song in an east wind that he does in a westerly one ; 
all with an instinctive content at the dealings of Provi- 
dence. The flowers bloom happily, and never fire off 
their pistils in petulance or anger; the trees heed not 
the fair or the foul, but keep on, weather or no ; and 
the humble grass, though universally regarded as green, 
keeps right on growing, true to the allegiance it owes 
the sun, irrespective of little outside influences. 

What's the use of croaking? Does it make one 
hair black or white ? Is an east wind shorn of a single 
shiver by it? Does the rain cease to chill because of 
it? Does the sun relax his melting beams because we 
don't like it ? No. Then, why should we croak ? Ah, 
why ? 



HEATHEN SYMPATHY. 

The Bralamin, with his eyes all wet with tears, 

Stood still to hear a Christian damn his horse, — 
I mean by " Christian " only what one hears 

In heathen lands applied to ours, of course ! — 
He saw the trembliag creature cringe to feel 

The thong applied with yenom to his flank. 
The while those ciirses poured with blistering peal. 

And marvelled which it was wherefrom he shrank. 
The blows continued, and the storm of words 

Rained round the quadruped with equal might ; 
It moved the Brahmin's sympathetic chords. 

Who stretched his hand to stay the cruel fight. 
"Look here," quoth he, "you cursed, cursing file. 
Your conduct, let me say, is cursed Yile ! ' ' 



WHITEWASHING. 405 



WHITEWASHING, 



Spring is the season of cleanliness, — the sanatory 
sabbath, where people whitewash up into respectabil- 
ity of appearance, and try to look decent for a year. 
Whitewashing is a great institution, and it comes to a 
brush with other domestic institutions about the sea- 
son when the flowers open, and housewives and tulips 
blow at the same time. It is well to own a brush your- 
self, and mix your own whitewash ; then, with the pale 
fluid by you, you can get up mornings and apply it at 
your leisure, or spend the evening in beautifying and 
purifying your premises. This is the way you will be 
likely to do, if you are an economist. Buy your brush, 
procure your lime, slack the mysterious mass to a 
creamy fluid, and then attempt the purification of your 
wall overhead. "Don't spatter!" will be the injunc- 
tion of the prudent house-wife, of course ; but heed it 
not, — women are proverbial for their caution, — lather 
away, with might and main, and she will leave the field. 
The wall is dark with smoky accumulations, but, thanks 
to the science of the brush, it will soon be made spot- 
less. You dip boldly into the wash, and the first dash 
at the waU brings a drop into your eye. It may be that 
some petulant expression escapes you — may-be not. A 
second attempt is better. You mind your eye, and go 
along, this way and that way. There is a struggle 
going on overhead between light and darkness, as 
there was when Lucifer, the Dark Angel, struggled 
with Michael on the plains of heaven, and the light is 
bound to succeed. You feel encouraged, as you see 
the wall wet with the application, knowing that the 
warm air will render it very pure and white. You feel 
dizzy with looking up, and your neck aches, and your 



406 WHITEWASHING. 

sinews are sore with your efforts ; but persevere, and 
the crown is yours. And now leave the wall to dry, 
with the reflection that you have saved at least a 
quarter of a dollar by the operation, and a fancy of the 
satisfaction youself and Avife will feel at the pleasant 
change in the appearance of the premises wrought 
by your exertions. A few hours afterwards, you 
return to your room. There is a cloud on your wife's 
brow as dark as the w^all before it was whitewashed. 
You are minded of the cause by a significant pointing 
to the wall overhead, and the carpet below, and the 
furniture around. The former looks like an enlarged 
map of* the United States, including Kansas and Cali- 
fornia, with very dark prospects for Kansas ; the carpet 
is flecked with white stars, like a chart demonstrative 
of mundane astronomy; the furniture is dotted with 
endless blotches of white, as if it had been struck with 
a sudden snow-squall. You begin to get it through 
your hair what it is that has caused your head to itch 
so confoundedly all day. You have been limed. But 
you are in for whitewashing, and, as in the case of the 
late amiable Gen. Macbeth, it is about as well to go 
ahead as to go back ; so you vigorously seize the brush 
again, with less heart, however, than at first. But with 
less confidence come more pains, and fewer drops 
spangle the floor, and the map disappears from the wall. 
When it is dry, it takes a new guise. It is white, with 
here and there a shallow pool, with a dark bottom. 
The brush is again applied. Better and better. At 
last, after a week's application, a good deal of fretting, 
and labor enough to raise a two-story barn, the wall is 
completed, and the brush is laid aside, for some other 
time ; but whether that time will ever come or not, de- 
pends upon the scarcity of whitewashers. But it is a 



PROSPECTIVE SUMMER. 407 

triumph, after all, to look at the railky firmament that 
spans your home, and feel that your " neat and cun- 
ning hand '^ laid on the purity, even though discolored 
dresses and soiled carpets mark your course, as the 
traces of violence follow the sanguinary brush of war. 



PROSPECTIVE SUMMER. 

Passed the boundary dividing spring from the domain 
of summer, and, upon our senses gliding, steals the 
breath of the new comer — gentle Deity of Flowers, 
in whose genial warmth outspringing, from a myriad 
chosen bowers, floral sweets abroad are winging. 
Where the crystal brook is brawling through the sum- 
mer woodland shadow, and the bob-o'-link is calhng 
from his home within the meadow; where the dark 
ravines are dimly, coolly with our memory pleading, 
and remembered shadows grimly through our heated 
minds are speeding; where the tall pines, dark and 
solemn, murmur constantly their story, and the crag, 
in mighty column, stands in monumental glory ; where 
the sweet birds' songs are gushing from the bushes by 
the river, and the little waves are rushing, and the 
leaves with music quiver ; where the trout in cool, still 
places wait the tempting bait to swallow ; where the 
winding path one traces, with dehghted foot to follow; 
where the cascade white and foaming o'er the rocks in 
glee is leaping, and the lake where perch are roaming, or 
big pickerel are sleeping; where kind hearts and pleas- 
ant voices all combine to mark the hour, where the 
gentle heart rejoices in the summer's sovereign power ; 
— all stand beckoning to us, beckoning, coaxing us to 
leave the town, leave our books and money reckoning, 



408 PROSPECTIVE SUMMER. 

led 'mid rurals "up and down." But there comes a 
memory speedy of fierce flies and fierce mosquitos, for 
our sacrifice most greedy, putting on our comfort vetos ; 
of long walks uncompensated, thunder-showers in the 
mountains, of long hours with ennui freighted, of foul 
bugs in pleasant fountains. Thus our dreams in summer 
weathers draw us from the city torrid, and the leaves 
which memory gathers with their freshness cool our 
forehead. 



3477-6 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 ' 



